


Mon péché mignon

by ginger_rude



Series: For Want of a Nail [4]
Category: Brideshead Revisited - Evelyn Waugh, Other fandom influences:, The Magicians (TV), The Magicians - Lev Grossman
Genre: Age Play, Anal Sex, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, BDSM, Bookstore Porn, Character Development, Character Study, Dom/sub, Dom/sub Undertones, Dragons, Drink, Drugs, Episode: s03e11 Twenty-Three, Episode: s04e04 Marry Fuck Kill, Episode: s04e08 Home Improvement, Established Relationship, Exhibitionism, F/F, F/M, Fashion & Couture, Flogging, Fluff, Food, Gen, Hedonism, Homophobia, Impact Play, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Inspired by Art, Internal Monologue, Italy, Kink Discovery, Kink Exploration, Kink Negotiation, LGBTQ Themes, M/M, Masturbation, May include S5 plot elements, Mosaic (referenced), Multi, Museums, No Major Character Death, Oral Sex, Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Play party 101, Plot With Porn, Relationship Negotiation, Relationship Study, Smut, Spanking, Travel, Venezia | Venice, Violet Wand, Voyeurism, Whipping, Wine, bunnies bunnies bunnies it must be bunnies, not canon compliant beyond S3
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-03
Updated: 2020-05-16
Packaged: 2020-07-24 18:09:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 27,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20018803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ginger_rude/pseuds/ginger_rude
Summary: 1/22/20:   Just fyi for people who've been following this (thank you!): life took a front seat, but hope to get back on track soon.***After the events at Blackspire, Quentin and Eliot settle down together in Manhattan, eventually joined by most of their friends.  No external crises on the horizon (or are there...?), no longer in school; they're left with a lot of money and time to explore who they are, what they want, and what they still need to work through--both as a couple and individually.Along the way:  travel, fine dining and wining, kink, friendship, parties, hedonism, friction, self discovery, a mystery or two, and--of course--magic.This work continues the  seriesFor Want of a Nail,an AU serial novel where the Library doesn't succeed in siphoning off magic, and every major character escapes from Blackspire intact.  (Including the Monster, but never mind that right now...)Chapter one picks up a few weeks after Quentin and Eliot's return to New York from New Jersey inFamiliarity.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> On the title:
> 
> "Mon péché mignon" translated literally means "my cute sin" or "cute little sin." Colloquially it means something like "my little weakness."
> 
> Péché ("sin") really isn't a homonym for pêche ("peach"). I speak French only as an outsider and very rustily, so possibly it's a stretch. But, well, all y'all who watch the show probably understand why.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quentin, alone at home, has some thoughts about his life and how he got here. Also, smut.

By now, Quentin thinks, he ought to know that life is not a story. At least, not the kind of story he always wanted it to be: straightforward, with an arc that might be long but ultimately bends toward…not happiness, he’d (mostly) stopped daring to wish for that a long time ago; but _meaning._ Purpose. If not a fairy tale,

_(kid stuff)_

a…chivalric romance, he supposes. The Hero’s Journey. With Guess Who starring as the hero protagonist, naturally.

One thing he’s always been good at: fooling himself.

For several years, though, he’s understood that he’s _not_ a hero. Not Harry Potter, not Buffy, not Sir Galahad, not Joan of Arc or Brienne of Tarth or

_(Ora)_

anyone’s knight in shining armor.

He’d thought he’d made his peace with it. God knows, he’s had the lesson brutally spelled out to him over and fucking over, every time he’s tried to play the hero. That’s the problem: he _does_ keep trying. He can’t seem to help himself. Maybe he’s still not over that stupid childhood fantasy of being special. “Chosen.” Or maybe, he just needs to believe that the universe, as Alice so eloquently put it, gives a shit. Not even necessarily about him. About anyone.

The Quest seduced him back into that magical thinking. In hindsight, he feels played. Sure, they got actual magic back, and that’s great and all. But at what cost?

_(Dad. don’t think about it now)_

No one knows how close the Library came to stealing it all for themselves. They’ve settled for stealing all the credit. He supposes real heroes aren’t always thanked. It still burns.

The more worrying problem: he and his friends let a terrible monster escape into the world. He was supposed to prevent that. He failed. He’d promised the _actual_ hero of that story her reward, at long last: freedom. Instead, she’s now possessed by the very monster she’d been guarding. Which means, probably dead. Or worse than dead. Which, let’s face it, was basically how she’d been existing for the last several millennia. And after all that, her charge escaped. Never mind his hero’s journey; what was the point of hers? If the monster really is an apocalypse-level threat, they’ve all failed, her included. If not, her sacrifice was for nothing.

So far, it doesn’t seem like the world is ending; no more than always, anyway. File it with a million other imminent and ongoing horrors, then. Floods, fires and other climate-change-accelerated disasters; creeping fascism; regular mass shootings; wars; disease outbreaks; kids in concentration camps: what’s one more monster, magical or otherwise? You have to stop thinking about all the catastrophic possibilities after a while, or it’ll drive you crazy. Life goes on. So they say.

His own sacrifice, if he’d gone through with it, would have been for nothing too. What really pushed him to sign up for eternal babysitting in Hell? He suspects the part of him that the key manifested as his doppelganger: dressed in Hamlet black, inexorable as gravity, constantly murmuring its darkly seductive solutions to his litany of fears and failures. He’ll never be able to completely trust himself, it seems. Maybe he should be tied up more often.

But it all turned out happily in the end, right? He’s _not_ trapped eternally in an underworld dungeon with a monster. He’s here on Earth, sitting on a plush couch in a West Village penthouse apartment, eating expensive cheese on crackers and waiting for Eliot to come home.

Eliot, who saved him from a fate worse than death.

Eliot, who thinks he’s special. Eliot, who chose him.

Eliot, who loves him.

Eliot, Eliot, Eliot.

He knows better, he really does, but the romantic in him that just won’t die whispers: maybe the problem isn’t with the fairy tales after all. The problem is simply that he’s been trying to play the wrong role.

Because, check it out: he was rescued from a monster by a literal prince. King, in fact. Okay, ex-king (and technically so is he, for that matter). But, still. Tall, dark and handsome, check. Charming. Rakish. Has sword, can swashbuckle.

And Eliot _is_ romantic, surprisingly so, in the songs-and-movies way. He’s an excellent if exacting cook who often spends hours over dinner, each of three or four courses paired with exquisite wines and set off by candlelight. It took Quentin a while to realize that all the fussing and unsubtle fishing for accolades isn’t just Eliot being extra; in his way, he’s as anxious to please as Quentin is, and that’s sweeter and more intoxicating than any showy flaming dessert.

A day of beautiful fall sunshine inspires an afternoon-length picnic in one of the more secluded corners of Central Park, where they drink champagne under the slow drift of blaze-hued leaves. They’re that obnoxious couple making out in the back row of the movie theatre. They’re also that far less common couple who, after an evening of admiring the city lights from a rooftop bar, skips the trip back downstairs and simply flies home. It’s not a skill Quentin’s mastered on his own, but this doesn’t trigger his usual insecurities; the thrill of soaring through the night sky isn’t dampened, but rather enhanced, by the knowledge that he’s borne up by Eliot’s hand.

It’s not like any relationship he’s had. Admittedly, he’s got a fairly short resume for comparison. Alice—he realizes with a faint start that in their brief time together (preceding and interspersing all the tragedy and horror), they never really even went on a date, did they? Much less try to live together on their own, like actual grownups. Strictly a campus romance, not including some Fillorian al fresco sex while officially on a break. Before Alice, there were a few desultory experiments in undergrad, each lasting under two months. Barely more than casual dating, really.

But then, he’s also had relationships that were anything but brief or casual. Or do you count barely-recalled relationships from a lifetime that officially didn’t happen? How to factor Arielle, dearly departed wife, mother of his once-and-never son? He can’t think of either for very long, or very clearly, even by the already slippery standard of his Mosaic memories. It hurts when he tries. In all kinds of ways.

Last but the opposite of least, in that other, impossible reality, there was…Eliot. Husband-of-half-a-century Eliot.

As opposed to now-Eliot.

Eliot; Eliot.

Admittedly, Quentin didn’t enter into this relationship with clearly articulated expectations, but thinking about it now, he probably imagined it’d be more like his fuzzily sweet impression of their Mosaic years: a long-developed, almost imperceptible deepening of an already profound and tender friendship. Patient, gentle and kind. Steady. Comfortable.

This feels different.

Of course they’re still dear friends at the heart of it all, and certainly they’re tender and kind with each other. Even patient. Well, most of the time. Like everyone else, they’re not perfect. They’re also not bound by the rigorous structure of that other life, what with working all day on the puzzle and household chores. Managing the practical and emotional logistics of a triad (for a while). Raising a child.

Or, Quentin supposes, it might just be that they’re not an old married couple anymore.

At any rate, they’re young now, in peak health and in their sexual prime, with few responsibilities and a fat—obese, really—bank account. (As he confidently predicted, Eliot indeed receives a very generous allowance from Fillory in the form of gold nuggets and gems, shat from beetles and delivered by talking bunnies. This is the life they live). They’re not in a land of pure fairytale magic anymore, but Manhattan’s got its own gritty magic, figurative and literal, and money is a spell that opens many doors of both kinds.

Eliot’s re-reinvented himself as the star of some long-lost Noel Coward play. He’s proud to be a kept man, he says; he’s having a glorious time.

And Quentin is…besotted.

He lets his own coffee grow cold in the morning, lost in watching the long rippling column of Eliot’s throat. The delicately bruised eyelids, closed briefly against the steam. A soft dark ringlet, just right for a finger, already springing free of its slick coiffure. Eliot’s legs, lovingly encased in their slim sharp-creased trousers, endlessly unfolding as he scrapes back from the table. The stubble-shadowed heart of his mouth curled around the first cigarette of the day, one smooth eloquent hand cupped loosely around the flame—

His hands. Oh, god. Eliot’s hands.

Quentin covers himself with a comfortable throw from the back of the sofa. They were nestled into it together watching Netflix yesterday; the blanket smells faintly of Eliot’s hair oil, his cologne, his…Eliot-ness. He licks his palm.

_”You just love to use your mouth, don’t you,” Eliot murmurs. Quentin flushes, but he doesn’t stop suckling on Eliot’s finger, lips pursed tight, tongue running quick circles around the smoothly manicured tip. He draws down until the clean salty taste gives way to the sour metallic tang of Eliot’s ring. Quentin still struggles with asking for what he wants, so this is how Eliot got Quentin to show him how he likes to be blown: stretched a hand up to feed him, then mirrored his moves. Now Quentin just does it because yes, he really likes to. More recently, it’s also meant as an invitation for Eliot to turn him over and explore him slowly with those long, cool, clever fingers._

_Currently, Eliot doesn’t seem interested in hints, or in having his service disrupted. Quentin kisses slowly up Eliot’s neck to his jaw. He rubs his cheek against Eliot’s like a cat on sandpaper; runs his tongue up the shallow groove in Eliot’s chin. They hover there, mouths millimeters apart, until Eliot finally relents and closes the distance. Quentin kneads Eliot’s chest as they kiss, threading his fingers through the lush triangle of hair. He tries pinching a nipple; Eliot sharply nips his upper lip with his small, even teeth. Quentin opens wide for Eliot’s tongue and closes his lips around it, gently sucking. Eliot slips a strong hand around the back of Quentin’s head. He doesn’t push. Quentin wouldn’t mind._

_He moves back down Eliot’s body, tasting all the subtle nuances of sweat and skin and musk. He burrows under an arm and stays there a while, just breathing in, then licking. It’s fun to lick, especially Eliot’s ribs and sides; it makes him squirm, and Quentin doesn’t get to see that very often. He slides over to his stomach (more squirming), then down the happy trail: it’s a short trip, met with a soft inadvertent slap. Eliot’s hand slips down to cover the back of his neck, thumb describing small circles. He lets Quentin briefly take the head into his mouth but then taps his cheek: let’s get more comfortable. Eliot likes it nice and leisurely._

_They rearrange themselves. It’s actually a slightly awkward angle, especially if you’re not used to it—sort of like Romans reclining to eat their supper, maybe—but this way, he can use Eliot’s thigh as a pillow when he gets tired. He pulls Eliot’s cock toward him like a mic, even taps it like one. Blows lightly on the head. Testing. He’s never actually had a close encounter with someone uncut before this. Generally, something like that would exacerbate his usual performance anxiety. With Eliot, it somehow feels okay to be a novice, to experiment and play._

_He takes hold of Eliot, using a looser grip than he’s used to himself, and simply holds it for a moment, enjoying the heat and weight in his hand. Gently, he slides the skin forward and back. It’s oddly meditative, just exploring with his hand and tongue and following his observations: the silky gliding sensation, the look and feel of the delicate wrinkles, this vein, that twitch, the startling contrast in color as the head disappears and reappears under its sheath. A small sense of discovery as he slips his tongue under a fold. The jump and flutter as he licks over the frenulum and, finally, the head. That salty, slightly sweet taste._

_He looks up. Eliot is gazing down on him with that lovely, lazy smile. Quentin closes his eyes. Eliot pets his hair, tenting his fingers to run lightly over his tingling scalp; a thrill runs through him. I’m doing a good job. Yes; he still does desperately want to, okay. Besides, Eliot isn’t shy about giving direction as needed or wanted, and Quentin’s more than happy to take it. He covers his teeth the way Eliot taught him and goes to work in earnest, one hand still gripping the base of his cock and twisting, the other cupping and rolling his balls. _

_He loses track of time, only dimly realizing they’ve mutually sped up as Eliot’s hand tightens in his hair. He wonder if Eliot will let him finish this way today, but no; he’s already withdrawing. Quentin makes a small dismayed noise. He scrambles to his knees. Eliot kneels above him. He’s working himself at a brisk rhythm; you wouldn’t be able to tell from his calm face._

_“Take care of yourself,” Eliot suggests. “You’ve earned it.”_

_Quentin’s ears are hot again. He does as Eliot says. He’s barely touched himself until now; he’s been content losing himself in Eliot, and the sympathetic throb he’s felt with every loving ministration._

_“Look at you,” Eliot says, his voice richly amused. “You don’t even need lube.” It’s true; Quentin’s grip is positively slippery. He yearns toward Eliot, open-mouthed. Eliot leans back slightly and tilts his head._

_“Something you want?” he says softly. He’s still stroking himself. He’s never stopped. Quentin looks at Eliot in mute appeal. Why is this so hard? He knows his line, or thinks he does. If he could ever just get it out. He licks his lips._

_“Please,” he manages. Eliot tilts his head the other way._

_“Please, what?”_

_Let me have it back. That wouldn’t be enough even if he could say it out loud, and he can’t, and he’s speeding up in spite of himself, and he can’t speak and he wants to, and he wants, and he wants and he wants and, “Eliot,” he’s stuttering. “Eliot, please. Eliot. Eliot. El—“_

He opens his eyes slowly and just lies there a while, staring at the high dome of the ceiling. The recessed lights are automatically programmed to go on as it starts to get dark outside. They’re glowing dimly now.

Eventually, he gathers up the blanket and heads to the laundry room, stripping off as he goes. He tosses it all in the washing machine, along with a skim off the pile from the overflowing basket. One accomplishment today, anyway. A shower counts as another, he’s pretty sure.

He takes his sweet time, incorporating about half of Eliot’s products, including many he’s probably using the wrong way. He just likes the way they smell. Getting dressed would be a third accomplishment, he supposes. He wraps himself in one of Eliot’s luxurious robes. He’s not feeling that ambitious. Besides, Eliot’s probably not going to want to go out again tonight, once he gets home.

Quentin puts the cheese and crackers away. He transfers the damp clothes to the dryer. He wanders back to the living room, and has a brief moment of panic where he can’t find his phone and is immediately convinced that a) it’s tangled up in something that just went through the washing machine b) he missed Eliot, maybe asking him to meet somewhere. Eventually he finds it behind a sofa cushion. No messages.

Ah, well. It’s good that Eliot’s got friends in the city, Quentin reminds himself. He doesn’t remember exactly where they’re supposed to be today. Eliot had said brunch somewhere in Chelsea, but that doesn’t necessarily mean they stayed there. The first and only time Quentin tagged along, he got the impression that the restaurant was only the first of many stops for a lot of them, but he ducked out before the party moved on.

He meant to stick it out longer, mostly for Eliot’s sake, but he supposes he’d hoped that he might fit in, or at least make a new friend or two. They’re all Magicians, after all. Most are Brakebills alumni, with a sprinkling of, as Eliot puts it, intriguing foreigners. Quentin met about eight people that day, mostly men, all seemingly at ease with wealth, the world and each other, and—for some annoying reason—all much taller than he is. They greeted Quentin in a way that suggested a complete lack of curiosity in him. Or, Quentin doesn’t know, maybe that type thinks it’s better not to do the whole introduction thing, because they’re probably just going to keep forgetting you anyway and it’d be rude to have to admit it every time.

At any rate, Quentin was just as happy to retreat into a corner with a drink and his Kindle app while Eliot enjoyed himself. And he did; until Anthony, an ambiguously British Illusionist whose fashion choices and general affect make Eliot come off like one of the more dour extras in _Fargo_ , landed next to him.

“Oh, my God. Are you Eliot’s plus-one?” At Quentin’s wary nod, “Brilliant. Where on Earth did he find you? _Was_ it on Earth? I understand he’s been taking all sorts of exotic field trips to other worlds. Teletubbyland and so on. Is it true?”

“…um. No? I—“

“Of course not. You don’t look at all like a Teletubby. Not that you aren’t adorable in your own way. What do you do?”

Beyond his general overwhelm, Quentin was perplexed by the question. What do any of them do? No one else seems to be working either, and they’ve all graduated, or at least finished with Brakebills. (What exactly would his and Eliot’s status be now, anyway?)

Later, he learned that in fact most of the New York Magicians do keep themselves occupied. A few, mostly former Knowledge students, are working on independent post-graduate projects. A lot of Naturalists try to influence scientific research, particularly environmental. Some people infiltrate politics. Quentin gets the impression that the political ones tend to cancel each other out. Some Illusionists—Anthony among them, apparently—spend years over elaborate artistic installations, often only for an incredibly select audience. And of course, you can always go back into teaching, if Brakebills or one of the other universities will have you. Quentin supposes Brakebills’ mentor program wasn’t a complete waste of time, then. At least most of this sounds more interesting than magical podiatry.

At the time, though, Quentin didn’t know any of this. Increasingly disconcerted by Anthony’s unblinking, much-too-inside-his-personal-bubble stare—like a cat—Quentin looked around a little frantically for Eliot to come rescue him from this. Anthony followed his gaze.

“Oh, I see,” said Anthony. “You do Eliot.”

At that point, Quentin decided that once was enough.

It’s fine. They don’t have to do everything together. He’s got friends. He hasn’t hung out with Julia in a while; he knows it’s largely his fault. He should text her tonight. Or tomorrow.

And, let’s face it, he needs something to do with his time. He’s not smart enough to do the kind of work the Knowledge people do. Alice would be. Or Julia, he thinks, with a pang of guilt, if circumstances had gone differently. Maybe he could matriculate at a Muggle school. Comp lit, or maybe philosophy like he’d thought he might, a million years ago. Why not? It’s not like he’d be giving up magic, and it might be more fun knowing that he doesn’t actually have to try to make a living from it, and Jesus Christ how long does it take anyone to have brunch, anyway?

All right. They’re probably at a bar, or someone’s place. He just hopes they didn’t go somewhere to do lines. Eliot’s kind of an asshole on coke, and it takes him most of the night to wind down.

Quentin rummages in the pantry until he finds the box of Lucky Charms sitting at the back. He sits at the island and eats handfuls out of the box, feeling vaguely defiant. The view from the kitchen window—most of the apartment’s windows, really—is reasonably spectacular. All the lights are spread out beneath them. He sighs.

He understands himself by now, at least a little bit better than he once did. When he’s disappointed, it’s almost always because reality—any reality—can never live up to the larger-than-life, blurred-around-the-edges fantasy he had. New York is hard and cruel and competitive and crazymaking, but so is Fillory. It's just prettier.

And if he has nothing but misty watercolor memories of the Mosaic timeline, he’s pretty sure it’s because his brain, like the books he loves, left out all the unpleasant parts that don’t fit the story. For one brutal instance: Arielle probably died because Fillorian herbalists and midwives couldn’t save her from something that a modern American hospital could have done, easily.

And, knowing himself, he must have melted down dozens of times before finally resigning himself to the fact that they were stuck, quite possibly forever. He’d have bitched and moaned about all the manual labor: farming and building and even getting water, not to mention the backbreaking, endlessly frustrating labor over the puzzle itself. Would have deeply missed their friends from before, heartbroken at the dawning realization he might well never see them again. Alice, Julia,

_(Dad)_

everyone.

And Eliot is still Eliot. And he’s still himself. Whatever magic that brings two people together isn’t taught at Brakebills, and isn’t inherent to any particular setting. They’d even hooked up before, after all, and God knows there was nothing romantic about that particular occasion. What he remembers of the Mosaic, he realizes now to his chagrin, is probably a lot closer to a Taylor Swift song than the reality. (Yes, he likes Taylor Swift. Fucking sue him). He should text Julia, finish the laundry, and, if he’s still not back by then, just call or text Eliot like a grown-ass adult, instead of making up stories.

But here he sits, eating rainbow colored marshmallows, thinking of a once-upon-a-time-and-far-away night. When he and Eliot might as well have been the only two people in the world, sitting on a blanket outside their humble cottage, drinking rough wine by torchlight. When he first summoned up the courage to kiss Eliot meaning _I am falling in love with you_ ; and, under the light of two moons and a carpet of strange stars, Eliot--Eliot--Eliot--kissed him back.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quentin closes his eyes and holds out a hand as though to stop the room from spinning. “Sorry. Are you—are you saying you want to go to Europe right now?” 
> 
> Eliot half-turns; his tone is nonchalant. “Any particular reason not to?” 
> 
> “Wh…I mean, not off the—but, I—“ 
> 
> “If you’d rather, we can stay. Tasks always abound. We still need to regrout the downstairs bathroom.” 
> 
> Quentin puts his toast plate and mug in the sink. “Let’s go.”

Quentin lies sprawled just in front of the hot tub, enjoying the cool feel of the tiles under his stomach. He lets one hand trail in a stream of bubbles. A brief draft announces Eliot’s entrance.

“Jesus, I nearly tripped on you. What are you doing, silly?”

“Waiting for you.” 

The soft thump of a towel hitting the floor, then Eliot’s feet in his peripheral vision. “You look like a cat.” 

Quentin glances sideways and up along the interminable length of Eliot. “It’s a little hot.”

“Which is why they don’t call it a lukewarm tub.” Eliot sits, then slides into the water. “Ah.” He closes his eyes. “Life is good.”

“This doesn’t suck,” Quentin allows. 

“Coming in?”

“In a second.” Quentin feels dreamy and slow. He rests his chin on the back of his hand. 

Eliot gazes at him. 

“Look at you. You’re like a Caravaggio.”

Quentin opens his eyes to slits. “Caravaggio did cat paintings?”

“Cute.” Eliot holds out a hand. “Come on.” 

He lets himself be tugged forward until he’s crawling in awkwardly over the step. Eliot laughs and shakes his head. “You really do everything the hard way.”

Righting himself, Quentin says, “I always thought if I were a painting, I’d probably be _The Scream._ " 

“I don’t know why you do that,” says Eliot. 

Quentin wrinkles his brow. “Do what?” 

“Deflect when you get a compliment.” 

“I’m not deflecting,” says Quentin. Eliot grins at him. “What? I’m not. I like German Expressionism.” 

Eliot smooths a lock of damp hair behind Quentin’s ear. “You’re pretty.” 

Quentin shrugs before he can stop himself. 

“See,” says Eliot. “That.”

“Okay, okay.” Eliot’s still stroking behind Quentin’s ear, and it’s very distracting. “Um. Do we have to talk about this right now?” 

Eliot smiles. “No.” 

It’s unexpectedly difficult to find a position that allows for both traction and comfort without someone starting to float away. They end up in a kind of half-straddle, just grinding, until Eliot brings them off together. Quentin grips the rail and buries his face in Eliot’s sleek wet shoulder.

The next morning, as per their usual roles, Eliot goes about starting breakfast while Quentin’s preoccupied with someone extremely wrong on the Internet. It takes him a while to notice that Eliot’s still standing at the counter, but hasn’t actually put the coffee on. Instead he’s just sort of…eyeballing Quentin.

“What?”

Eliot delicately clears his throat. “Query. No; a favor. Both, actually. How would you feel about a minor shopping excursion? Some new clothes?”

Quentin deliberately sets his phone on the table. Eliot hurries on:

“Since we had to leave most of your wardrobe at Brakebills. I just hate for you have to keep wearing the same couple of outfits, when—“

“Todd sent me everything. A couple of weeks ago.”

“…So, that’s good.”

“Just because I have a lot of similar looking clothes doesn’t mean I never change them.”

“No, of course not. You have a style, and it’s…”

“Comfortable,” Quentin supplies. 

“Which is great.”

“Look,” says Quentin, “I’m sorry if I don’t go with the furniture. Maybe we should wait for the rest of the team and the camera crew.” 

Eliot holds up a placatory palm. 

“Sorry,” says Quentin. “I don’t mean to be difficult. Just…Why.”

Eliot seems to weigh his words carefully. “It would give me pleasure.”

Quentin sighs. 

“No vests.”

“Understood.”

“I’m not your mini-me.”

“We will find your own signature style. Devoid of vests.”

“I reserve the right to veto anything and everything.”

“Absolutely.”

“Including after it’s too late to return, if I decide I hate it.”

“Returns,” says Eliot, “are for the little people.” He’s sketching a doorway. It’s rhetorical, but Quentin asks anyway:

“What are you doing?”

“Portal.”

“Okay, even assuming we need to go right this second,—which by the way, we really don’t—you know there’s this thing called the subway, right? Or Uber, if you insist.”

“Yes,” says Eliot, “but rates are a little steep to cross the Atlantic, especially if it’s a surge.”

Quentin closes his eyes and holds out a hand as though to stop the room from spinning. “Sorry. Are you—are you saying you want to go to Europe right now?”

Eliot half-turns; his tone is nonchalant. “Any particular reason not to?”

“Wh…I mean, not off the—but, I—“

“If you’d rather, we can stay. Tasks always abound. We still need to regrout the downstairs bathroom.”

Quentin puts his toast plate and mug in the sink. “Let’s go.”

*

“Rome isn’t the traditional first choice,” says Eliot. They’ve emerged on a narrow cobbled street, hemmed in on either side by honey-colored buildings with low ivy-covered balconies. “But Milan is boring. Most of your better ready-to-wear stores have branches here, and there’s some excellent bespoke. Besides, there are other things I want to show you…”

Quentin scuttles to keep up, just avoiding a collision with a cheerfully oblivious group of Swedish tourists. They turn onto a broader thoroughfare lined with shops and restaurants. Eliot heads in the direction of an expensive-looking display window.

“Look,” says Quentin, “I know why we’re here, but first could we maybe just…I don’t know, anything else?”

“Give me some credit,” says Eliot. He holds open the door of a gelateria. “Second breakfast.”

Pistachio’s never been his favorite, but the cone Eliot holds out for him to lick is a revelation: a deep buttery richness, almost savory. He tries his own, a combination of dark chocolate and “forest” fruit (in a cup; cones are not his friend, speaking of clothing disasters). The fruit might have grown in an actual forest; the chocolate is unexpectedly heady with rum. 

He looks at Eliot. “Let’s live here.”

After that, the rest of the afternoon is…almost tolerable. They end up skipping most of the large department stores, which is more than fine with Quentin. He’s learned to hide it fairly well, but he has an almost atavistic aversion to heavily crowded spaces, particularly if he feels trapped, and most especially if he’s also supposed to perform a task in that setting. In the past—it’s embarrassing to admit just how recent, even to himself—a protracted trip to the mall or a big box store could easily send him spiraling into a public meltdown. Thankfully, nothing that obvious has happened for some years. Things like being able to skip rush hour and shop online help. Better living through strategic avoidance. It’s hard to imagine anyone but Eliot talking him into this.

But he does want to make Eliot happy. And Eliot’s clearly getting a huge bang out of the whole experience, whether it’s some kind of Pygmalion thing or simply vicarious pleasure in a process Eliot himself loves. So Quentin’s content enough to stand in a number of quiet little shops set discreetly back from the main drag, getting draped in fabric and stuck with pins while Eliot keeps up a running commentary on cut and color and line and something called “sprezzatura,” which Quentin intuits is not a kind of pasta. His main concern now is whether and how long he can stand to wear most of the new items. The sacrifices required by the incomprehensible gods of weddings and funerals—too many fastenings, stiff, scratchy fabrics, strangulating ties—are only bearable because they’re temporary. (How did he ever think he’d last in a corporate job like the one Fogg set him up with?) 

Eliot knows what he’s doing. What they end up with isn’t in theory too far from the dressier end of Quentin’s comfort zone: pullovers and button-downs, non-paired trousers and jackets, even a few plain tees. It’s mostly that everything fits much better, and the materials feel utterly fantastic. The cashmere winter coat could double as the world’s most expensive security blanket. He allows a couple of silk shirts in hues that might have been taken from one of the city’s innumerable stained glass windows, simply because he can’t stop petting them. He’s even persuaded into a pair of grey leather pants, butter-soft and supple as his most beloved worn-out jeans. 

Still, he’s itching to be done with this. Buying shoes the next day is fairly painless, but he nearly balks at the entrance of what Eliot reveals to be his favorite barber and hair salon in the city. Only the assurance that he’ll barely notice the difference in length, along with a promise that this is the last stop on the agenda, coaxes him into a chair next to Eliot’s. 

It’s only when they’re finally back at the hotel that he can relax enough to integrate the other truth here: there’s a part of him that’s wanted Eliot to impart something of his effortless-seeming elegance ever since the day Quentin first laid eyes on him. (Crushes always at least start out for him that way: he’s never quite sure if he wants to be the other person or do them. Or both). 

Now, standing in front of the mirror, he glances from his own reflection to that of Eliot behind him, one hand resting on Quentin’s shoulder. He can’t always read Eliot’s face, but he picks up on a quiet pride. It gives him a warm glow in his chest. At the same time, he has a strange sense of disorientation. He thinks he likes the appearance of the person in the mirror: slender and spruce, with a shining fall of hair. They wave tentatively at each other. A sudden fantasy occurs to him: if he looks away, that person might simply walk off in another direction. 

He gives himself a mental shake. Anyway. He plants a soft kiss on Eliot’s cheek. Eliot smiles, takes hold of his other shoulder and kisses the top of his head, lingering. Message received and understood. 

“So, what do you want to do now?” Quentin asks.

“Your choice,” says Eliot.

Quentin shrugs. “When in Rome…”

“…do as the tourists do?” Eliot finishes.

Over the next several days, they hit most of the obvious attractions. Eliot affects an amused disdain for all the Catholicism, although it seems to Quentin that he puts a little too much effort into it. He insists on hatewatching an entire Mass at the Vatican, murmuring a steady stream of snarky commentary just loud enough for Quentin to hear. (“Love the drag, but did you know your handbag’s on fire?”) He’s even less impressed by the vestiges of older religions. Quentin supposes it’s understandable. As he gazes up at the vaulted blue ceiling of the Basilica di Santa Maria, the Gothic church built over the ruins of three goddesses’ temples, Quentin wonders whether Minerva or Isis or Serapis are wandering around somewhere; and if so, whether they’re as disappointing as the gods they’ve already met. 

Quentin’s retained enough from undergraduate art history and some rare conversations with Molly to hold his own in museums, even if he suspects he doesn’t always share Eliot’s degree of aesthetic appreciation. They wander through the Galleria Nazionale until they reach the Caravaggio that Eliot compared him to. Narcissus at the pool. He understands what Eliot meant: _beautiful boy._ He tries to see it through Eliot’s eyes, but the picture brings back that odd unsettled feeling. Is this really a portrait of self-adoration? Or does the boy depicted scan his image in vain for something lost in the depths? 

“So, what do you think about moving on?” Eliot says later. He’s on his second after-dinner grappa. Having tried it earlier, Quentin sticks to espresso.

“On? You mean—as opposed to going back home?”

“Why not? I’m not under any pressing obligations, are you?”

The answer is “no,” obviously, but that doesn’t mean Quentin’s entirely at ease about that. Then again: fuck it. Who wouldn’t kill for this opportunity? Travel the world with someone you love? The word _honeymoon_ flits across his mind and exits before it crosses his lips.

“Okay,” he says out loud. “Where?”

“Paris? Or London? You never got to see more than the inside of our pub, I think.”

Quentin ponders. “Maybe not another big city right now.”

“No problem,” says Eliot. “What do you feel like? Mountains? You don’t ski, do you? Or beach? Some of the Greek islands are quite lovely. It doesn’t have to be Europe, of course. Somewhere tropical, maybe? Mexico? Bali?”

“Those all sound nice,” says Quentin. “Um. Do they have gelato?”

Eliot smiles. “Okay, I have an idea.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ["Narcissus" by Caravaggio.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JrTsNuUQXzU) A short Youtube video of art historians looking at the painting, with brief images of the museum from the outside and closeups of the picture.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s a cliche to say that Venice is magical, but it’s immediately obvious to the two Magicians that in this case, the saying is quite literal.

“I’ve never actually been here before,” says Eliot. “I thought it might be nice to see it before it goes the way of Atlantis.”

Quentin’s barely paying attention, Eliot can see. Understandable. He’s enchanted, himself. 

They’re standing on the lowest dry step of a shallow stone set, gazing at a worn blue building across a small expanse of green water. The faint brackish odor of the canal is overtaken by a strong yet not unpleasant smell of fish frying from one of the open windows. It’s surprisingly quiet. The only other person in sight is an elderly woman in head-to-toe black, slowly propelling herself with a cane across the nearest bridge. A bell tolls from somewhere behind them, deep and resonant. 

Cool grey mist blankets the ancient city. It’s a little melancholy, but in a good way: that small bittersweet ache from a minor fall in an aria. But even more pervasive than the fog…

He turns to Q. “Do you feel that?”

_(deja vu)_

Quentin dips a nod, still rapt.

It’s a cliche to say that Venice is magical, but it’s immediately obvious to the two Magicians that in this case, the saying is quite literal. That faint static of “ambient” that they’ve returned to the world—which Eliot fervently promises he’ll never take for granted again—is more of a roar than a crackle here. Every hair on his body bristles with it; there’s an invisible web dancing between his fingers, practically begging to be flung outward and spun in a thousand shapes. 

A gondola laden with six loudly chattering tourists drifts past, breaking their shared reverie. 

“Do we take one of those?” says Quentin. 

“I think the regular passenger boats are less…” Eliot disdainfully eyes the retreating figure of a baseball-capped pensioner, “…romantic.” 

He sees Quentin’s face and smiles. “Maybe later.”

They end up walking. It’s a beautiful morning stroll to the hotel Eliot managed to book. Much of the fog burns off as they wind their way through a covered market and a succession of narrow streets, stopping to pick up a sack of warm apricot-jam filled croissants from a particularly fragrant bakery. 

The front desk at the hotel is less beautiful. It starts off well enough. Quentin immediately curls up on the couch in front of the fire as Eliot goes to check in. The clerk is urbane if not effusive as Eliot confirms their reservation.

“We have a reservation under the name ‘Waugh.’ W-a-u-g-h,’” Eliot says in what he knows to be flat but servicable Italian.

The clerk glances over at the back of Quentin’s head, then down at his computer. “For three nights?”

“Yes. Possibly longer, if something opens up.” 

Quentin gets up and wanders over. The clerk’s expression, while not markedly changing, somehow…congeals.

“I’m sorry,” he says in English, “but there is nothing available for the rest of the month.”

Eliot shrugs. ”Just through Thursday, then.” 

He already knows where this is going; one hand involuntarily clenches, even as he reaches for his wallet with the other. Sure enough, there’s been a mistake: the double king he’d reserved is being renovated, terribly sorry, apparently the website had not been updated. No, regrettably, the hotel is completely booked. Obviously his card will not be charged. Eliot doesn’t even bother with the pantomime of threatened complaints and politely indifferent apologies and insincere gestures at alternate recommendations. 

“Va bene, capito,” he says, and turns on his heel, a startled Quentin in his wake.

“Wait, what was—what happened back there? I thought—“

“Well, we thought wrong,” says Eliot shortly. “Onward and upward.”

“Hey, wait!“ 

Quentin’s panting slightly. Eliot forces himself to slow down.

“Tell you what,” he says. “Let’s have lunch.”

“What? No,” says Quentin. “What was the problem?”

“They wouldn’t give us a room.”

“But you had a reservation, right? They must have sent you a confirmation email?”

“Correct.”

“Then, let’s go back and talk to the manager.”

“It’s not worth it.”

“But—“

“It’s off-season. Fuck an overpriced boutique hotel. We’ll find something better after lunch,” says Eliot. 

“…I mean, whatever. You just seem really upset.” 

“Lunch,” Eliot says firmly. 

He fingers his flask as they walk in silence, as though by merely tracing the familiar shape he can transfer its contents directly into his veins. Fortunately, half a block takes them past any number of bars and restaurants. Quentin only shrugs when Eliot asks if he has a preference, so Eliot picks the first place that appeals, a cozy little boite with low wood-beamed ceilings and a vast open display of wine bottles. With a plate of tiny crustless sandwiches in front of him and a very respectable Pinot Grigio at hand, Eliot finally begins to relax. 

Quentin is busy with his phone.

“Anything interesting?” 

Quentin ignores him. Eliot sighs.

“Look, I’ve dealt with this shit before. It’s really not worth the aggravation. Even when you win, by the time you do, half the day is gone, and you’re still patronizing a homophobic asshole when you could give your money to a more deserving venue instead. It’d be different if it were the only decent option in town; it’s not. Life is short.”

Now Quentin is staring at him, brow furrowed. 

“Are you sure that’s what it was?”

Eliot just looks at him. Sometimes…

“They had our room right up until you turned around and he saw we weren’t a straight couple.”

Quentin takes on an odd expression.

“He probably just saw the hair. Look, I can’t claim to know exactly went on in his tiny mind,” Eliot amends. “I do know the bottom line. The huge fuck-off crucifix gives it away if nothing else.”

“That’s probably most of Italy.”

“Not like that. Look, if you really want to argue…“

Quentin is Quentin. “I still think we should complain to someone. Or, I don’t know…curse him.”

Eliot takes a long swallow of wine, leaving the glass in place long enough to cover the involuntary spasm in his cheek.

“That’s not a good idea,” he says finally. 

“I was kidding,” says Quentin. “Mostly.”

Eliot says nothing. 

“Fine,” says Quentin. “What was the name? I’m going to write a review on Yelp.”

Eliot smiles at last. “You do that.”

He pops another soft little triangle into his mouth—cucumber, just enough dill, delicious—and lets himself settle into the glow of the third glass. While Quentin’s furiously thumbing away, he takes out his own phone. He’s not above casting a minor spell to secure a luxury suite at a renovated 16th century palazzo. He thinks with fond nostalgia of his rooms at Whitespire. 

Quentin’s still bent over his phone. At least he’s eating now. 

“That must be a very thorough complaint. Not saying they don’t merit it.”

“I’m done,” says Quentin. “I’m looking at things to do here.” His eyes widen suddenly. 

“What’d you find?”

Wordlessly, Quentin shows him. Eliot grins. 

“Oh, that’s not you at all.”

*

“So, when I die, if I get to be here, I’m good,” Quentin says some hours later. 

“You get to be here right now,” says Eliot. Quentin’s too busy lovingly running his hand up the nearest wall of books to hear the edge in his voice, for which Eliot’s thankful. He’s already ashamed. It’s only a turn of phrase. 

They’re at the Libreria Acqua Alta, a cheerfully chaotic bookstore designed to guard its fragile contents against floods. Books are crammed haphazardly into shelves and form leaning towers on every available surface; they also fill bathtubs, fish tanks, even the odd boat. A lot of it’s in Italian, of course, but there’s a sizeable English language selection, among others. Cats weave in and out among the stacks, lie curled up in boxes, sprawl across text-laden tables. Eliot deftly extracts a half-exposed lithograph of medieval Venice from under a sleeping tabby. He eyes the picture critically. Tosses it back onto the counter. They really ought to invest in some decent art, he reflects. Give the apartment some personality. 

He loses himself in contented browsing for a good half hour or so. An ice bucket, amusingly enough, contains a handful of books on wine; he helps himself to a semi-recent _Oxford Companion._ The legend “Fetisch Erotik,” scrawled across a plastic bin, catches his eye. Despite the unprepossessing nature of its container, there’s a tidy collection of glossy coffee table books— assuming your coffee table is of a particular nature—along with some more vintage, esoteric material. 

There’s even a supposed magic section, but as he expected, it’s all crap.

He rejoins Quentin on the “fire escape,” a rickety porch with one roped-off side open to a canal. He plops into a worn velvet armchair. 

“Shall we compare hauls?” he asks. Quentin shows him his, about a dozen in all. A bilingual collection of Italian folktales. A few worn paperback mysteries. The rest, not too surprisingly, appear to be classic children’s literature. Eliot picks one up: _The Marvelous Land of Oz._

“You have this one, right?” He means that he remembers looking at Quentin’s books together, that he’d been paying attention; but Q seems to interpet it as an implied criticism.

“Yeah, so, I still collect. This is—I’ve never seen this cover in the States. It’s not an original edition, but it has to be over eighty years old; otherwise it wouldn’t have the color plate inserts.”

“Okay,” Eliot says peaceably. 

Quentin raises his eyebrows as he thumbs through Eliot’s finds. He holds up an old magazine by the edges. 

“Are you sure this one isn’t a _Hellraiser_ comic?"

“I just read it for the articles,” Eliot deadpans. Quentin rolls his eyes. 

“Seriously, is this something you’re into? Should we have this conversation?”

Eliot shrugs airily. They’ve already had variations on this conversation; he’s not furtive about his porn browsing habits. Or, for that matter, his past adventures, with or without Margo. 

“Oh, you know me,” he says. “I have eclectic tastes. This?” They’re now looking at a photo of someone suspended by a number of hooks through his skin; his face is a portrait in ecstasy. “I doubt I’d have the pain tolerance or the patience, respectively. I like to watch.”

Quentin’s already moved on to some of the more mainstream items. He pauses at another photo: an enactment of the kind of primal boarding school scene that’s probably shaped UK government for generations. Eliot grins. 

“Like I feel like I’m waiting for you to tell me about your Red Room of Pain.”

“Yeah, we have a red room of pain,” says Eliot. “We really do need to finish the downstairs bathroom when we get back. Either that wallpaper goes or I do, and I’m still picking splinters out of my ass from the toilet seat.”

“Hot,” remarks Quentin. 

“Look,” says Eliot, “you have your special interests, I have mine, that’s all.”

They make their purchases. 

“Oo,” says Quentin, “before we go, we need to climb that.” He points. It’s a staircase composed of old encylopedias, leading up to yet another view of the canal. 

As they stand side by side, looking over the crumbling wall, Quentin says:

“So, hypothetically, if I were interested…”

Eliot waits. “In?”

“…Any of your special interests.”

Eliot purses his lips, repressing a smile. “Well,” he says, “that can certainly be a discussion. Did you have any particular…”

He breaks off. Quentin’s staring down into the water. Eliot follows his gaze. 

The luminous pistachio-green eyes are a little hard to distinguish from the surrounding murk of the water at first, but once seen, they can’t be unseen. The size of tires, they’re focused unblinkingly on Quentin and Eliot. Eliot recoils.

“Jesus!” He calms down when neither the creature nor Quentin seems too perturbed. “What---is that a—“

“Dragon,” says Quentin. “I guess it makes sense there’d be one here.”

“You’re awfully blasé,” says Eliot. Quentin shrugs. “What, ‘you’ve seen one dragon, you’ve seen them all?’”

“Two,” says Quentin. “Not including the Library dragon, which I never actually met.”

Eliot peers cautiously over the edge. He can just make out the suggestion of a body: a pattern of shadows, glimmers of silver. “I thought they’d be bigger.”

“Maybe this one’s young,” says Quentin. He hesitates. “Maybe we shouldn’t be talking about her like she’s not here.” He leans over the side; Eliot impulsively moves to haul him back, but stops himself at an arm around Quentin’s waist.

“Hi,” Quentin calls softly. There’s no discernable response. After a moment, the eyes flicker and seem to wink out. It’s unclear if the dragon’s gone away or simply taking a long blink. 

“Okay…” says Eliot. 

A plume of water shoots up, splashing them both. Eliot wipes his face, annoyed.

“They have blowholes?”

Suddenly, resonating all around them (or is it in their heads? Eliot wonders):

**“It’s right under your nose.”**

The voice is high-pitched and oddly toneless, yet somehow manages to connote a sense of deep exasperation that puts Eliot irrestibly in mind of Penny. An impression that’s only strengthened when the dragon adds,

**“Idiots.”**

There’s a small spreading ripple on the surface.

“I think she’s gone,” says Quentin. He looks at Eliot. “What do you think she meant?”

But Eliot suddenly knows. It’s amazing that he didn’t notice earlier. That persistent feeling of pins and needles wasn’t just his left leg falling asleep. He takes a couple of steps down, kneels carefully, and moves his hands slowly over the short stack of encylopedias he’d been standing on. There’s a flare of energy from the one just below the topmost. He wiggles it out and opens the cover. 

The page almost flies away before Eliot can snatch it, let alone take a close look. It’s still struggling wildly as Eliot does his best to fold it into a neatish packet that he can stuff into a vest pocket, which he quickly buttons shut. 

*

“Are dragons known for these cryptic messages, or did we just luck out with this one?”

They’ve ordered room service up to the suite, both because of the late hour and for privacy. The page, which had been intermittently fluttering to life against Eliot’s chest like an externalized heart murmur, finally seems to have surrendered. He’s not ready to chance it.

“I mean,” says Quentin, “not an expert, but you know how they also eat people sometimes, right? Personally, I’m okay with her not wanting to hang around and chat.” 

“Fair point,” says Eliot. “Alas, poor Benedict.” He accepts Quentin’s offered taste of his risi e bisi, pushing his own plate over in exchange. “How do you know it’s a she, anyway?”

“Because an actual dragon expert told me it’s polite to assume they’re female if you don’t know. They’re matriarchal, I guess.”

“Margo’d love that,” Eliot remarks. “That was the woman who came back with you on the _Muntjac,_ right? What was her name again?”

Quentin tries Eliot’s black spaghetti. He grimaces. “Poppy,” he says. He gulps wine. “Why?”

“An actual dragon expert could be helpful.”

“We haven’t even looked at the page yet. Come on, let’s do this.”

They clear all spillable items from the table, making space. As he expected, the page makes another dash for freedom as soon as he opens his pocket. Together, he and Quentin bear it to the table and pin it down with empty plates and glasses. The page still ripples a little. Quentin looks at Eliot.

“Does this feel creepy to you?”

“Yes,” Eliot says emphatically.

“I mean, like, it doesn’t seem very consensual.” 

Eliot bites his tongue. Offending a fragment of an object that—even intact—in his experience, is only sentient by the most generous definition: not his biggest concern here. 

Whatever else it might be, the page is old; almost too worn and fragile to tell that it’s some sort of vellum. It’s isn’t in any language or even writing system he recognizes; he guesses it’s some sort of pictogram, but the discrete markings occasionally break off into a flourish of joined-together swirls and strokes that most closely resembles a cross between classical Arabic and a thicket of roses. The writing covers the page in rows; it also runs around its borders. Just to add to the fun, halfway down the page, the pattern breaks altogether in favor of some advanced math equation; it’s accompanied by a drawing that’s probably part of the math, but looks to Eliot like an acid-fueled concept of next century’s Financial District. He asks Quentin.

“Yeah,” says Quentin, staring. “I want to say, it looks like differential topology, but I couldn’t tell you any more than that.”

Eliot nods as though he has the faintest clue what that means. Very carefully, Quentin turns the page over. More of the crazy writing, and another drawing. This one seems to be of some kind of plant. Quentin looks at Eliot.

“Nope,” says Eliot.

“But you can feel the power coming off it, right?” says Quentin. “And if you look under the hood…” He sketches a Mann Reveal. Eliot does likewise: yes, an unimaginably dense and complex network of shimmering strings. Beyond even the visible, there’s an unfamiliar…tang to it, an ineffable sense of _other_ .

“This is huge,” says Quentin, running a hand through his hair. “This is, like…Deep Magic.” 

He fixes enormous, shining eyes on Eliot. Eliot knows that look. Part of him wants to be excited for him—with him, even. Quentin’s right: whatever its purpose or provenance, this is clearly magic on a grand scale, beyond the scope of anything they’ve ever had their hands on. And Q…it’s rare, and precious, when he lights up like this. Eliot doesn’t want to rain on his parade, truly. 

But…

“It must have come to us for a reason,” Quentin is saying.

“Must it?”

“El. This is—it’s a piece of some greater scope magic, that’s been just sitting around all this time; which, we apparently just happened to be in the right place at the right time? And a fucking dragon made sure we picked it up, because there's something important we've been missing.”

And there it is. Quentin’s seeing this as the start of another capital-Q Quest, the idea of which gives Eliot an ass cramp. At best. He wants to remind Quentin that the last one had a clear and necessary goal; and, having accomplished said goal, they’ve more than earned the right to sit back and revel in peace and prosperity. 

More concerning: Quentin has a bad habit of interpreting “important” as “throw himself in front of a bus for the sake of the bigger picture, whatever the fuck that might be.”

Aloud, he says, “Or, we were trolled by a giant aquatic lizard that eats people. Maybe it was hoping we’d get overly excited and fall in.” He pushes forward before Q can go full wounded-puppy. “I’m not saying this can’t be an interesting project. Let’s…take one step at a time, yeah? Mull it over. Take it home. Do more research.” He’s not being dishonest here; he does at least have intellectual curiosity about the thing. 

Quentin looks like he wants to argue, but doesn’t. Anyway, what is there to argue with? It’s a perfectly reasonable plan.

“We should find something safe to keep it in,” is all Quentin says. Eliot conjures up a Bronner’s Seal, which he carefully tucks away in the bigger-on-the-inside cigarette case that holds all their luggage.

“So,” he says. “Poppy.”

He watches Quentin’s face; sure enough, that expression earlier wasn’t just from the taste of squid ink. He’s not as good at this as Margo, but Q’s an open book. One that’s fun to read.

“You had sex with her, didn’t you?” 

Quentin starts piling dishes onto the tray. Eliot smiles broadly.

“What do you want to do tomorrow?” Quentin asks.

Eliot has no particular agenda, which works out well. They’re both happy to linger over their morning cappuccino, watching tourists, locals, and pigeons go about their respective business. Eliot enjoys his afternoon spritz on the hotel terrace, or wherever they happen to end up. Quentin’s made a project of sampling gelato flavors in alphabetical order (if he discovers he’s missed one in a different gelateria, he gets an extra scoop). They wander through winding back streets in the quieter neighborhoods: Venice is a good place to get lost. There are little restaurants where the clients all speak either Italian or the local Venetian dialect; they eat miniature clams and crab risotto and (Eliot) tissue-thin slices of liver on polenta, all washed down with the bright, crisp wines of the region. 

One night, at Eliot’s request, they get dressed up and go to the Teatro la Fenice, where they sit in gilded splendor and watch _The Magic Flute_. Quentin chats during the intermission about the Masonic symbolism and the likelihood of Mozart being, if not a Magician, at least magician-adjacent. Eliot just wishes they could have booked the royal box. 

By tacit agreement, they skip the gondola ride—for fairly obvious reasons, low-riding boats no longer appeal—but they take the vaporetti everywhere, including a number of the other islands. Quentin buys souvenirs, the inevitable masks and Murano blown glass, and Eliot does his best to excise the word “tacky” from his spoken vocabulary. 

And then, one rainy afternoon, they take a tour of the old Orsoni foundry. Eliot doesn’t realize until they’re there that this is where they make the tiles, glass and gold, that make up Venice’s many mosaics. 

It’s a fascinating tour. There’s no reason it should provoke feelings other than interest and aesthetic appreciation. And it doesn’t, until they reach the Color Library with its shelves of squares in thousands of shades. 

“The possibilities are endless,” says the guide, and in one brief plunging moment of vertigo, Eliot sees the world refracted. It’s deja vu and jamais vu at the same time, multiplied by a factor of a thousand; he seems to be in two places at once, if not more; he loses all sense of where he’s been and what he’s done, how old he is, his very existence. 

_(The beauty of all life…)_

When they emerge, Eliot steers straight for the nearest cafe. He orders Campari, neat, and has the waiter keep them coming. The bittersweet taste stings the back of his throat. Quentin quietly nurses a single glass of wine, watching him. 

He’s in a better frame of mind by the time the rain stops. They stay in the area for dinner. It’s close to midnight before they’re ready to go back to the hotel, just in time to catch the last vaporetto.

Eliot’s consulting his _Oxford Companion_ for advice on Amarones—he’d like to bring back at least a few cases—when he becomes aware that Quentin’s gone very still beside him.

“What?” he says, although he can guess. 

“Don’t look now,” says Quentin, so naturally Eliot does.

The dark water behind them is lit up by not one, not two, but three pairs of brilliant yellow eyes drifting after them in staggered formation. Each individual iris is easily a good five feet across.

When Quentin suggests they go home the next day, Eliot’s feeling quite amenable. Anywhere not surrounded by water, he’d been thinking; but, sure, they can pick up their travels another day. There’s plenty to keep them occupied back in New York. Household projects. Social events. Professional networking. The mystery of the page. He supposes. And, oh yes, he certainly wants to pick up that conversation Quentin initiated back at the bookstore. 

But before any of that can happen, they acquire a houseguest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This update took longer than I expected. There ended up being a ton of research, not all of which even made it into the chapter. 
> 
> The [Libreria Acqua Alta](https://en.venezia.net/2014/02/04/libreria-acqua-alta-library-in-venice) is a real bookstore, one which I have not visited but desperately need to. 
> 
> [The Orsoni factory](https://www.orsoni.com/color-library/) is also real. 
> 
> As always, all comments are very much appreciated.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A houseguest brings Quentin and Eliot the 4-1-1. Also the 420.

“Why.”

“Because he’s our friend? Because he asked?” 

They’re keeping low voices, despite Eliot having already thrown up a soundproof barrier to their room. He’d been all smiles and cocktails to Josh, of course, and set him up in what’s now effectively the guest bedroom, he supposes. Plans for converting it into a study or workshop will just have to wait. Among other things. 

“What was I supposed to do?” Quentin is saying. “‘Tell him no?”

“Well, it’s moot now,” says Eliot. 

“Seriously. What would you have said? ‘Yeah, we have plenty of room, and yeah, we’re supposed to be friends, we just don’t want you around?”

“It’s done,” says Eliot. “It’s fine.” 

“I mean, it doesn’t seem like you’re fine, so just tell me what to say to him and I will.”

Eliot breathes. “It doesn’t matter. Truly. It’s fine,” he says. “You’re right. It’s the right thing to do. Josh is our friend. I’m sure he’d do the same for us, if we were in his position. By the way, what is his position, exactly?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, why is he here? On Earth? Is he taking a vacation, or…?”

“He didn’t really say,” says Quentin. “I didn’t ask. He just asked if he could stay with us for a little while.”

“How long is a little while?” Quentin opens his mouth. “You didn’t ask. It’s okay. I’m sure we’ll hear the whole story.”

“Maybe at dinner,” Quentin ventures. “He says he’ll cook.” 

Eliot smiles politely. Quentin seems to realize what he’s said. “I think he just wanted to pay us back. I didn’t mean—“

“No no,” says Eliot. “It’s perfectly fine.”

*

Honestly, though, it’s hard to begrudge Josh: he’s a consummate guest. As a fellow practitioner of the diplomatic arts, Eliot recognizes a charm offensive when he’s on the receiving end of one, but that doesn’t mean that he’s immune. Instantly picking up the hint that Eliot already had a menu planned for tonight, Josh offers to either do prep or help in some capacity that doesn’t involve the kitchen. Eliot’s big enough to admit that Josh has a better hand with pastry than he does, so Josh ends up doing the onion tart while he finishes the chocolate-chestnut mousse. Quentin makes salad and puts a cheese and fruit platter together. It’s surprisingly companionable. 

They sit at the kitchen table instead of the dining room, chatting lightly about food, wine, New York, Josh’s garden, and their Italian travels. Quentin catches Josh up on various Netflix shows. Josh is gratifyingly appreciative of the Riesling’s clean, mineral finish. They empty three bottles between them. 

After dinner, in keeping with the Alsatian theme, Eliot opens a bottle of plum eau-de-vie. Josh brings out his own specialty.

“Mis hermanos,” he says, lighting a joint for each of them before his own. Eliot briefly considers the disharmony between the weed taste and the mirabelle. Fuck it, he decides. He swirls the colorless spirit in its glass before the first long sip, chasing its smooth burn with a pull off the joint. Eyes half closed against the fumes, he reclines. He feels pleasantly inured to the world. Or worlds, as the case may be.

“So,” Quentin says. “What’s going on in Fillory?”

Josh bugs his eyes out slightly. “Oh, you know. The usual.”

“I…don’t know, actually,” says Quentin. “Fillory doesn’t really have a ‘usual.’”

“Well, there was some trouble with Loria.” Josh says. “They had a civil war, and now they’re split into Loria and West Loria. Idri asked for backup, so we sided with Loria. Then Loria lost, West Loria took over their half of the Wellspring, and we’re basically in a magical cold war now.” 

“Ah,” says Eliot. “That kind of usual.”

“It’ll work itself out,” says Josh. “Hakuna Matata.”

“And how are Margo and Fen holding up?” Eliot asks.

“Margo and Fen? Margo and Fen are great. Why wouldn’t they be?” 

“It sounds like they have a lot on their plate,” says Eliot.

“Margo and Fen have everything under control. I am not even slightly worried,” says Josh, “about Margo and Fen.” Josh’s voice is steadily climbing in volume.

Eliot and Quentin exchange a look as Josh takes a very long drag. 

“Um, so,” says Quentin. “I don’t mean to pry…” He hesitates. Eliot steps in.

“How’s Penny?”

“Good, that I know of,” says Josh. “Haven’t seen him for a while.”

“He didn’t give you a ride?”

“He has other things to do. For Margo, mostly.”

“Really,” remarks Eliot. 

“Yeah,” says Josh. “Because she pays him. Which was my idea, but hey…“ His voice is rising again.

“Then, how did you get back?” asks Quentin. Josh abruptly shifts moods.

“Aha,” he says. “You guys are going to love this.” 

He reaches into his pocket—slowly, for dramatic effect—and brings out the button.

“Oh, my God,” says Quentin, leaning forward. 

“Right?” says Josh.

“How?”

“Long story,” says Josh. “First of all, shit going down in the dragon community. There’s a Neitherlands pod that lives in the channels between the fountains—yeah, who knew those even existed, right? They’re not accessible to humans, or any other creature. Anyway, while magic was gone, the fountains were frozen over, and the Neitherlands dragons couldn’t travel. Some of them got cut off and starved. When we turned it back on, they went to the East River dragon, because they knew she had a backchannel to the Neitherlands: if something like that ever happens again, they’ll have insurance. She didn’t want to give them the button, they were pissed, there was a fight. Which, spoiler alert, she lost.“ He waggles the button: QED.

Josh takes another long hit off his joint. He’s clearly enjoying himself.

“So what happens then,” Josh continues, “we’re on the Muntjac—another long story, but bottom line we got her back—looking for the Oyster Archipelago. You know: war is expensive, treasury’s running a little low, so, pearls…”

Eliot’s been steadily tuning out, to be honest, but a cold little trickle penetrates his comfortable haze: _treasury’s running a little low._ Fuck. He files it away for a more sober hour. 

“…and I fell in,” Josh is saying. “Obviously, not a diver. Panicked. Next thing I know, this dragon’s pulling me down, and somehow she’s got me breathing. She tells me what I just told you. Says she knows we’re the ones who restored magic—“ Josh huffs a pleased laugh—“and the Kings and Queens of Fillory are the rightful owners of the button, so: she gave it to me.”

Josh beams all over his round face. Eliot waits.

“That’s it?” he says.

“That, my friends,” says Josh, “is it.” He leans back and blows a “thumbs up” smoke ring at the ceiling. 

“You know,” Eliot says, “in my experience, magical creatures don’t give something away for nothing.”

“It wasn’t nothing,” says Josh, aggrieved. “Services rendered. She was grateful.”

“So, she didn’t want anything at all.” 

Josh raises his shoulders and drops them. “Okay, there might have been something about someday, they might ask us for a favor.”

Eliot’s eyes slide closed. 

“ _Might_ ask,” Josh stresses defensively. “She didn’t say ‘when,’ or even ‘if.’”

“Or ‘what?’” Eliot presses.

Josh shrugs again. His good humor has evaporated.

Eliot says nothing. Sure, why not, give an unconditional IOU to a fucking dragon, apparently on behalf of all of them. At least he can’t lose his firstborn again. He hopes Josh doesn’t plan to procreate. For a number of reasons, really. 

“Well, actually,” says Quentin, “a dragon just gave us something, and she’s not asking for anything in return.”

“We don’t know that,” says Eliot.

“First rule of magical bargains: it’s not binding unless both parties agree by word, deed, or signature.” Quentin’s in his element now, ready to argue all night if necessary. Eliot mentally throws in the towel.

Josh is looking from Quentin to Eliot. “When was this?” 

Quentin tells him about the Venice dragon and the page.

“Can I see?” says Josh. Quentin looks at Eliot. Somewhat reluctantly, Eliot gives Quentin the nod. 

“Actually, we could use your Naturalist expertise,” Eliot says. He shows Josh the plant drawing, careful not to let the struggling page get away or tear. “What is that, do you know?”

With a casual gesture, Josh freezes the page in the air. Eliot makes a mental note of the spell he used. 

“I don’t recognize it, but that’s not the issue,” Josh says after several minutes of studying the drawing from varying distances and angles. “It’s not like any plant on Earth, or Fillory, for that matter.” He taps the page. “Phyllotaxis.”

“Gesundheit,” says Eliot. 

“That’s the way leaves are arranged around a central stalk,” says Josh. “They always spiral in one direction or the other, and they have a kind of order—actually, it’s a mathematical sequence. But this one doesn’t follow either pattern.”

“You think it’s not a real plant? Or it’s just sort of…random?” Quentin seems oddly deflated by the idea.

“Or, it makes sense wherever it comes from, which could be somewhere very exotic. Speaking of: I have seen a _lot_ of exotic lately. Since I had the button, I figured, why not finally try some of the other fountains?”

Eliot quietly tucks the page away as Josh launches into an animated account of his Neitherlands spelunking adventures. Josh rarely stays in a bad mood for long; which, considering that he’s apparently staying for “a while,” Eliot reflects, is a good thing. As is the quality of Josh’s homegrown weed, bless him. Eliot’s now feeling remarkably well-disposed. Quentin, the eternal percher, slides off the sofa to sit at Eliot’s feet. Eliot slowly cards his fingers through Q’s silky hair as Josh natters:

“…a lot like ancient Greece, high cliffs and ocean. And harpies. Listen: do not ever have sex with a harpy. Brass wings, claws, anger management issues…believe me, it’ll all end in tears.”

“Noted,” says Eliot. Q leans his cheek against his leg. Eliot smiles down at him. Pleasant ideas float through his mind like champagne bubbles. He drags his nails gently over Quentin’s scalp.

“So, um,” says Quentin. He’s smiling a little dopily. “Did you ever find, like, a world full of Teletubbies?”

Eliot snorts laughter. 

“Uh, yeah, actually,” says Josh. “And no, I did not hit that shit. I could have.” 

Eliot laughs harder. Tears actually spring to his eyes. Quentin's giggling too.

“That’s…like, um, that’s, like…Shakespeare level…you know. More shit than dreamt of in your philosophy. Dreamed? Dreamt? God, Hamlet’s depressing. I don’t want to be Hamlet. I’d rather be…" 

Quentin pauses for a long, long moment, as if considering a decision of profound import. 

"...SpongeBob. Hey. Did you ever get into SpongeBob’s square pants?”

They’re all laughing like idiots now.

“Oh, and!” says Josh. “Bacchus. Just keep on running into him. Sooo many parties. All over the worlds. We are soul bonded, man. He gave me something special of his—wait, I have it—“

Eliot and Quentin look at each other as Josh goes off to his room. Quentin runs a hand over Eliot’s calf, then down to his foot. Josh bustles back in:

“Trivial Pursuit, Star Trek edition. What do you say?”

“Ah,” says Eliot. He stands, extending a hand for Quentin to pull himself up. “Thanks. Maybe another night. I think we’re going to turn in.”

“Of course,” says Josh. “And, listen, thank you both again, from the bottom of my…pick your organ.” He puts his hands together and dips his head, then heads for the kitchen.

“Don’t worry about it,” Eliot calls halfheartedly over the sounds of Josh beginning to clean up. 

“Hakuna Matata!” Josh calls back. The dishwasher kicks on.

*

“I think I like having Josh around because he makes me feel cooler by comparison,” says Quentin. He’s giving Eliot a shoulder rub. Eliot grunts in pleasure as Quentin digs strong thumbs into the base of his neck. 

“Then,” Quentin says, knuckling down Eliot’s spine, “I remember that he’s like a professional chef, and he’s this amazing gardener, and he makes all these designer drugs, and also he can turn into a bird, and all kinds of shit that I can’t do.”

“So, he’s got some party tricks,” says Eliot. He tilts his head back; Quentin massages under his jaw. “You’re prettier.”

Quentin considers this.

“I am prettier,” he agrees. 

Eliot smiles, turns around, and kisses him. 

Afterward, when Q’s asleep, Eliot lies propped up on an elbow, just looking at him: the tender lines of his mouth, the slight overbite just visible through parted lips. The worry lines in his forehead, poor duckling. Eliot gently smooths his brow. Quentin stirs and mumbles, turns over, little-spoons back into him. 

I’m lucky, Eliot thinks. 

Despite his warmth and satiety and lingering stone, he can’t quite drift off to sleep. Very carefully, he uncurls himself from Quentin. He goes out on the balcony for a smoke.

He really should have stayed in better touch with Margo, he thinks. Then again, bunnies hop both ways. If she really needed his help, she’d have asked for it. If anything, it seems like three was getting to be a crowd. He laughs. Oh, Bambi. Josh surely didn’t know what hit him. He wonders whether that little triangle is open or closed. Is, was, will be? Whatever. He’s glad Fen’s finally having some fun, anyway. As for Fillorian politics…

Jesus, why would anyone want to be a king? Thank God he’s out of it. Josh is right, personal drama notwithstanding. Margo and Fen are more than equipped to handle the responsibility. Fillory don’t need no stinking patriarchy. 

He, on the other hand, needs money. There is that. He broods. 

Loath as he is to admit it, he’s been a little bored. Maybe gainful employment of some kind would be a good thing. He can’t imagine what. Dragon-whispering, maybe. He rolls his eyes. The page must be valuable. Maybe they can unpack its secrets, turn it to their advantage. Or just sell it on eBay.

Anyway. It’s not immediately urgent. They’ll just have to be a bit more frugal while they figure it out. He feels entirely confident that they will. Josh certainly does come in handy, he reflects. He’s rarely this relaxed. 

“Hakuna Matata,” he says aloud, and laughs. He flicks his cigarette over the balcony, watching the faint spark dissolve into the glittering jewel box of the city below.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've read the books, you probably recognize a few things here; there's a fair amount of stuff in this chapter from all three along with the show, but remixed.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another visitor. Eliot and Josh entertain a new idea.

“Nice to see you too, dork,” Julia says. Her hair, soft against his face, smells like strawberries. He gives her an extra tight squeeze before they let go. She looks at him.

“You look great,” she says. He grins, trying not to shrug. He’s wearing one of the silk shirts they brought back from Italy, the color of one of Eliot’s beloved burgundies, and the grey leather pants.

“And you,” he adds belatedly, taking her coat, “you look—gorgeous. Like always. Sorry, I know—god, Jules, it’s been—“

“Way too long,” she agrees. “This place is amazing.” She’s already gone straight to the built-in bookshelves, browsing. Quentin smiles. There’s a reason they’re friends.

“So you do actually have this.” She’s brandishing a copy of _Gödel, Escher, Bach_ at him.

“I still haven’t read it,” he confesses as Eliot bustles in.

“Hello, hello, hello, welcome to our humble abode.” He kisses both of Julia’s cheeks. “Can I take your—ah.” Quentin’s quietly wrestling the coat onto a hanger. He gives up trying to make it even and quickly retreats into the hall closet.

When he emerges, Eliot’s already behind the wet bar, his pride and joy. Julia’s admiring the view. He joins her.

“How are you?”

“I’ll tell you about it,” she says, still gazing out the window. “Later.”

She sinks gracefully into one of the soft leather armchairs. Eliot brings them a light purple concoction in martini glasses.

“Sorry to mix and run,” he says. “I think Josh may need assistance. Make yourself at home. Would you like?” He inclines his head at the fireplace.

“That sounds cozy,” says Julia. “Thank you.”

Eliot gestures casually; a crackling fire springs to life. He excuses himself, taking the last cocktail with him.

“It must be nice,” says Julia, staring at the flames. Quentin sits.

“I know,” he says. “I still can’t believe we live here.” Julia half-smiles.

“I mean…” She trails off. Shakes her head. “No. Forget it.”

Quentin understands: it must be nice to still have magic.

“I’m sorry, Jules,” he says.

“Seriously,” she says. “No self-pity party. I’m fine, really. I’m…working on it.”

“I—is there anything I can do to help?”

“I don’t know,” she says. She looks at him. “Can I show you something?”

“Yeah?”

“Not here,” she says. “Is there somewhere more private?”

“From Josh and Eliot?”

“Please,” she says.

“All right,” he says. He carefully sets his drink on a coaster. “Let me, uh, give you the rest of the tour.”

He leads her up the spiral staircase. Like being a little kid again, he thinks, bringing his friend up to his room while the grownups make dinner. He closes the door behind them.

“So,” he says.

“So,” she echoes. She takes a breath. “Don’t freak out, okay?”

“Um,” he says. “I’ll try not to, I guess? What—“

“Just watch,” she says. She takes a switchblade out of an unseen pocket; it looks small, but sharp. Before Quentin can say anything, she’s dragging a deep line across her palm.

“Jesus, Julia!”

“No,” she says, “look.” She thrusts her hand at him; the gash is there, but bloodless, and even as he watches, it knits itself up until there’s nothing left but unblemished skin.

“This is how it’s been,” she says. “Nothing can hurt me. Physically. I’ve tried all kinds of—“ She breaks off.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I’m sorry, Q. I didn’t think. I’m so sorry. Fuck.”

“It’s okay,” he manages. “How—How did you find out?”

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

He sits on the bed. “Yeah. Tell me.”

“It was a while ago,” she says. “I was going to drain some spaghetti, and I tripped. I spilled boiling water all over myself, and I couldn’t feel anything. I’ve been testing it out ever since. I—well, I won’t tell you everything I did. The point is: it’s only been happening since. You know. First goddess, then Blackspire. Now, I can’t do magic at all, but I’m also apparently indestructible. So. What is that?” She looks at him. “What am I?”

He just shakes his head.

“Anyway,” she says, “I guess it could come in handy. I’d be a great bodyguard. But…I’d rather have magic. Given a choice. Which, I no longer seem to have. Unless I can figure this out, because whatever it is—“

“It’s _something,_ ” he finishes.

“Unfortunately, research options are a little limited these days.”

“Yeah, I know,” he says. “So—can I show you something, too?”

They study the page together.

“Do you know where it comes from?” she asks. “I mean, besides the uncharacteristically helpful dragon?”

“It was in this old encyclopedia. Shit. We should have taken that.”

She shakes her head. “If that was the origin, you’d have felt it then. This is big, big magic, and it’s just one page. I can’t even imagine the entire book.”

“Any idea what any of it is?” asks Quentin.

“Well, I have no idea what that language is, or languages. The math…” She bends over the page. “Free Trader Beowulf, all together, might have had a shot. In general…” She pushes out a breath. “This feels like—the magic I used to have. God level. If they had books. Which, I never learned if we—they—do, or not.”

They’re quiet.

Abruptly, Quentin says, “You should take it.”

“I can’t do magic, remember? There are some decryption spells you could try—“

“We did all that,” says Quentin. “What we need is research. You’re good at that.”

She half-smiles again. “So, what, be a theoretical magician?”

“I mean, yeah,” he says. “Why not? You’re the smartest person I know, Jules.”

“You mean, the smartest person you’re still talking to.”

Quentin doesn’t reply. She puts a hand to her face. “I’m really out of step tonight, aren’t I? I’m sorry. I think I’ve been spending too much time alone; I forget how to human. Or friend. I suck.”

“Now you sound like me,” he says. “You know you don’t. It’s okay, Julia.”

She squeezes his hand.

“Besides,” he says, “I think it likes you. I’ve never seen it just hold still for anyone before.”

She takes the page. “All right. I need something to do. And maybe it will turn out to be relevant to my interests. So. Tell me about you.”

He fills her in: their travels, domestic life, Josh.

“How is that, anyway?” she says.

“Actually kind of works out,” he says. “They’ve been hanging out, making a lot of food together. I think Eliot’s doing a lot of it tonight, which is good, or, I mean, they’re both really good cooks, but Josh can get a little…experimental. We should probably head down.”

Before they descend, he adds, “And they’re really getting into wine. I mean…well, you’ll see. But it’s been fun. You know how they both are.”

“Yeah,” she says. “I kind of do.”

Downstairs is richly fragrant of roasting meat, wine, onions browning in butter. Josh sticks a slightly befloured head around a doorway.

“Five minutes. Hey, Julia!”

“Hey, Josh.” Her smile is warm. “Can I help with anything?”

He’s already disappeared, shouting something inaudible at Eliot.

Quentin leads Julia to the dining room. “Oh, did I tell you, I think I’m going to go back to school? Like, ‘real world’ school?”

“Really. In?”

“I’m looking at English Lit, maybe Comp. Lame?”

“Not at all,” she says. “That sounds like a great idea.”

“It’d have to be next year,” he says. Then, “What?”

She’s considering him, head on one side. “You seem…happy.”

He looks at his best friend, her face warmed by candlelight; sitting here with him, waiting to break bread with their friends; in the home he shares with the man he loves.

“I know. Weird, right?” he says.

The food is straightforward and delicious, even if the lamb is a little bloody for Quentin’s taste. The wine flows copiously; and, as he’d intimated to Julia, so does the wine-talk.

“I don’t generally favor this much tannin, even with red meat,” Eliot is saying. “I was actually thinking of going the other way, a nice big jammy Gigondas, but this is intriguing, don’t you think? Somehow, it balances.”

“It was a little grippy for me at first,” says Josh, “but it’s already really opened up.” He swirls the glass, takes a sip. “Nice long finish. You’ve got your basic black fruit, bitter chocolate, a little loamy,“ another sip, “cedar, very nice.”

“Cigar box,” says Eliot. “Leather.”

“It kind of reminds me of…grapes,” says Quentin. He drinks. “Also? I think there might be alcohol in it.”

Julia smothers a snicker. Eliot gets up to clear the plates, dropping a kiss on Quentin’s head as he does.

“You are lucky you’re pretty,” he says.

The rest of the evening is mostly a pleasant blur. They play Josh’s Star Trek Trivial Pursuit, which Julia wins and Eliot pretends to know less about than he does. They play Push, which Quentin wins, and an increasingly drunken and hilarious round of charades, which nobody wins. They’re all on the floor by the end. Quentin flops on a pile of cushions and watches the ceiling gently revolve.

Josh and Eliot are into the maudlin phase.

“I spent days on the playlist for that one,” Eliot is saying. “I’ve had more success literally getting sticks to dance. And I bother to invent drinks for them? They’d be as happy with a kegger. Happier. Peasants.”

“They did not appreciate you,” Josh says. “Believe me, I understand. You put in all this effort, make the food, plan the guest list, hire the silk dancers, finesse dimplomat—dimplomat—keep everyone from killing each other, and what do you get? There’s no…” He gestures grandiloquently; the right word is just beyond the horizon, if only he could pluck it. “no…”

“No just recompense,” Eliot finishes carefully.

“Exactly!” says Josh. “We’re both born hosts. We just want to make everyone happy.”

“Ours is a high and lonely destiny,” agrees Eliot.

“Especially ‘high,’” says Quentin, and giggles. No one pays attention.

“Maybe you guys should go into business together,” says Julia. “Catering or event planning or something.”

Much later, looking back, Quentin will come to recognize the profound import of this moment; will come, at some of his lower points, to reflect on whether this was one of those major flashpoints of divergence between timelines, like shooting Franz Ferdinand.

At the time, though, he barely registers the sudden silence, doesn’t turn his head to see a shared moment of “Eureka” pass between Eliot and Josh, if such there is. The beginnings of a hangover are seeping into his agreeably blitzed state. He should probably do something about it, he thinks, eyes still closed.

Eventually, he’s sober enough to go downstairs with Julia and make sure she gets into her Uber. It’s starting to rain; if it’s close to dawn, it isn’t obvious.

Josh and Eliot are still going strong, matching shots in what might or might not be a contest. He swears he hears one of them toast Mayakovsky as he heads upstairs.

He runs a bath to take away the chill, with a cold washcloth on his forehead and a glass of cold lime seltzer to stave off incipient nausea. That faint roiling feeling has an emotional tinge to it as well, one he can’t locate or name. He just knows he doesn’t like it much.

He gets out, towels off, catches a glimpse of himself in the fogged over full length mirror. Grimaces. Pulls one of Eliot’s full length silk robes over his naked body. Looks again at the blurred lines of his reflection. Steps back. _Pretty_ floats vaguely through his mind. He just feels tired.

He goes into their bedroom and curls up in the comfortable wing chair next to his bookshelf, tucking his legs under him. Sometimes it’s easier to fall asleep this way, nodding over a book with the lights on instead of getting in bed. Like sneaking past the guard. He rests his chin in his hand, pulls away: roughness. He could have shaved again, he supposes. It all seems Sisyphean. Unwillingly, he thinks about blades, and Julia; his hand throbs sympathetically. He looks out the window as though he could still track her disappearing into the night.

There’s a loose knot of images and feeling-tones that seems to originate in his queasy gut. He’s cut his hand and not thought about it afterward, he tells himself, twice, in Fillory. He doesn’t have to think about it now, except in regard to Julia, and his ongoing worry over her. A wellspring of complex emotions and memories below that. He remembers Julia as he first knew her, at five, ten, fifteen, twenty: kind, beautiful, golden Julia, who walked between the raindrops. A benevolent goddess with a devoted fellowship of one. He thinks of their games, Fillory and further, playing pretend together: not just to be somewhere else, but—each of them—someone else. He remembers how he’d often thought that if he were her, he’d never want to be anybody else.

He opens the book he’d chosen, a beautiful hardcover compendium of English nursery rhymes. He has a vague idea that he might specialize in folklore, possibly do his thesis on the influence of folklore on classic English children’s fantasy literature. He suspects it’s probably been done to death, like just about everything. Unpleasant as the idea is, he supposes he could always consult his mother about staking out a niche in academia. He hasn’t spoken to her—or Molly, it goes without saying—since he and Eliot had dinner with them in New Jersey.

He thumbs through the pages until he finds the rhyme he was looking for; it’s always wigged him out a little.

"There was an old woman, as I've heard tell,  
She went to market, her eggs for to sell;  
She went to market all on a market-day,  
And she fell asleep on the king's highway.

There came by a pedlar whose name was Stout;  
He cut her petticoats all round about;  
He cut her petticoats up to the knees,  
Which made the old woman to shiver and freeze.

When this little woman first did wake,  
She began to shiver and she began to shake;  
She began to wonder and she began to cry,  
"'Oh! deary, deary me, this is none of I!

"But if this be I, as I do hope it be,  
I have a little dog at home and he knows me;  
If it be I, he'll wag his little tail,  
And if it be not I, he'll loudly bark and wail."

Home went the little woman all in the dark,  
Up starts the little dog, and he began to bark;  
He began to bark and she began to cry,  
Oh dearie dearie me, this is none of I!"

But then, who was she?


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eliot continues to take Quentin to new places.
> 
> or,
> 
> the one where kink finally starts to happen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was a lot of fun to write. It got overlong, so breaking it in half. 
> 
> I'm using NaNoWriMo to try to step up the pace of writing this fic (or at least one of the other projects if I get stuck), so -hoping- to update more frequently this month. As always, all comments (and encouragement to keep at it, esp this month) very welcome.

“Do you want to go out tonight? Just us.”

Quentin glances up from the screen of their shared desktop, having carefully brought the pdf of the application he’d been filling out (started, anyway) to the front.

“Where?”

“There’s a party that I thought might interest.”

Quentin stifles a groan. “I thought you said ‘just us.’”

Over the past several weeks or so, Eliot’s social life has somehow become “their” social life. Mostly, his friends are over at the house, usually for what seem to have become increasingly long and elaborate dinner parties. Sometimes, they’re over in the afternoon as well; wine tastings, officially, although the “tasting” always seems to progress into a more full-throated “drinking” as the evening wears on, along with other objects of delectation and/or methods of ingestion. On several occasions, they’ve persuaded Eliot and Quentin to come out clubbing with them. Well, more precisely, they invite Eliot, and Eliot persuades Quentin.

It reminds him of Columbia, doing his best to keep up with Julia and James’ friend circle. This time around, he’s firm about rooting himself in the wallflower corner. No one, not even Eliot, can get him to dance in front of other people. Boundaries, bitches. Other than that, and provided that he’s sufficiently medicated (one way or another), he likes bars and clubs and so on well enough, he supposes. Up to a point.

But then: the forced good humor. The spilled drinks and stepped-on toes. The awkward attempts at shouted conversation with people he wants to like him and fears that they don’t, despite being unsure whether he actually likes _them._. The inevitable retreats into any undisturbed corner or bathroom stall, just to get away from the pounding noise and flashing lights for a few minutes. Pretending that he’s still having a good time, _trying_ to; knowing, all the same, that he just wants to get back to his warm bed, Netflix, and/or a pile of books. It’s starting to feel all too depressingly familiar. 

The main difference between then and now is that Eliot’s crowd mostly goes to gay bars and clubs. Whether it’s because of Eliot’s makeover or just that men are a lot more blatant about these things, Quentin gets hit on a lot more often these days. He has mixed feelings about this. Not all negative ones, he has to admit.

“Slightly different kind of party,” Eliot is saying. “And the usual suspects are not invited.”

“Not even Josh?”

“Most especially, not even Josh.”

“Okay,” says Quentin, “what is it?”

“A play party,” says Eliot. 

Quentin stares blankly for a few seconds before he gets it. 

“Hm,” he says. 

“Up for it?”

Quentin blows his lips out. “I mean…yeah? Like, is it—someone you know, or…?”

“I don’t know the organizers,” says Eliot. “I know of them. They’re fairly new. I’ve been following their event list, it’s semi-public. Tonight’s ‘Demo Night.’ I’m not sure all it entails. Presumably, it includes demonstrations.” 

“So, we wouldn’t have to do anything except watch.”

“We certainly don’t have to do anything we don’t want to do. That would be true, regardless.”

“You’ve been to these before, right?”

“Not this particular club, like I said. But, yes.”

“Okay,” says Quentin. “Sure. Um. What should I wear? Does it have to be leather?”

“You can. Or, anything all black should be fine,” says Eliot. “Although I’d skip the hoodie.”

“I think I can manage that,” Quentin says drily.

The party turns out to be in Greenpoint. Quentin reflects that it’s the first time he’s been in Brooklyn since they came back to the city, and makes a mental note to go down to see Julia next time. It’s only fair. 

“By the way,” says Eliot as they climb the steps to the converted warehouse’s entrance, “there are two reasons I want to take a look at this place.” 

Quentin looks at him quizzically.

“The second one’s less important,” Eliot says. “I’ll tell you later.” He smiles down at Quentin. His hand rests on the back of Quentin’s neck. Which always calms him; also, it occurs to Quentin as they enter the space, it’s a little possessive. Appropriate, he decides. Feeling emboldened, he checks out their surroundings. 

The room they’re in seems like any number of other parties: clusters of people chatting in groups, standing or sprawled on one of the plush velvet couches. A loner or so hovering near a snack table. Quentin is about to ask, then notices that they’re on a balcony. The space below looks more like what he’d expected. He mentions this to Eliot.

“There’s usually a separate room for socializing,” Eliot says. “Occasionally there’s even a bar, though officially, most people don’t believe in drinking and flogging.”

“Understandable,” Quentin says carefully. He flickers a glance sideways. Eliot’s drumming his fingers lightly on the rail. 

“Get you anything?”

Quentin shrugs. “Uh. A Coke? Thanks.”

He’s engrossed in the scene directly below him, a trio of white-coated people surrounding a naked man strapped flat to a table. The tallest is holding something Quentin can’t quite make out. A big vibrator? She touches the end—it looks like a light bulb—to the man’s genitals; there’s a spark of light. The feet jump a little…

“Anything of interest?”

Quentin points. “What is that?”

“Violet wand. Electricity,” Eliot explains. He passes Quentin his Coke and watches with him. 

Now the tall (mad scientist? evil doctor? Quentin has an odd little flutter at the idea of the latter) woman, having put the wand aside, seems to attach a cord to herself, the other end of which Quentin can’t see. One of the other labcoats is taking various slender metal objects out of a black bag, laying each tool precisely on the white sheet next to the hapless man’s body. The tall woman picks one up and moves it over his abdomen. He writhes in his bonds. 

Eliot takes a sip from Quentin’s can, makes a polite little moue, sets it aside. 

“Do you want to go downstairs?”

“Sure,” says Quentin. He pauses. “Is that…a Slinky?” A muffled yelp seems to float up from below.

Eliot laughs. “Come on.” 

“Nice outfit,” says a woman as they pass. She means Eliot, of course, who’s wearing one of his extravagant suits from Fillory, the one that makes Quentin think of Willy Wonka (although Eliot would probably kill him if he said so).

“Same to you,” says Eliot, smiling.

“Is that from _Black Panther?_ ” Quentin blurts, and immediately feels the heat rising to his neck. 

“It is,” the woman says, affably enough. “Well, inspired by. Afropunk. Have you been here before?”

“We have not,” says Eliot. 

“Well, welcome,” says the woman. “I’m Vi.”

“Eliot. Pleasure.”

“Q,” says Quentin. Eliot quirks an eyebrow at him. Quentin shrugs. Eliot looks amused.

“We were just having a look around. Impressive amount of space for the neighborhood.”

“It’s a great space,” Vi agrees. “Have you seen the back room?” 

“We have not,” says Eliot. “Should we?”

“You should,” Vi says. She smiles at Quentin. “Tonight’s kind of our intro night. There’s a table set up with toys, so if there’s anything you ever wanted to ask about or try out…I think Greg’s going to be hosting for another hour or so.”

“Sure,” says Quentin. Eliot offers her his most charming smile.

“I think we’d love that. Where would we find the back room?”

“I’ll show you,” she says, with a flash of white teeth. Quentin trails behind, distracted by various shiny objects: someone’s glittering silver platform heels propped up casually on a giant ginger man’s back; a cage with a live parakeet in it, hooked over the entrance of what appears to be an empty kitchen; the gold glint of Vi’s spiked collar necklace disappearing around a corner. He trots after them. 

“…I can put you in touch with Brigitte,” Vi is saying to Eliot. “Remind me to give you a card.” She turns to include Quentin. “Q, Eliot, that is Greg. Greg is…apparently busy.” 

A small balding man is clipping a string of small clothespins to the underside of a young woman’s arm. Topless, she’s already got a colorful pattern of clips decorating her breasts. She might be half Greg’s age.

“I can give you the tour,” Vi says, again addressing herself to Quentin. Either Eliot’s told her he’s a newb or she’s just good at sizing people up. Or, he supposes, he’s just that obvious. He decides to go with it. 

“Where should I start?” he asks her. There’s a veritable buffet of implements displayed on the long table.

“Do you know what you like?” she returns. He looks up at Eliot, who’s wearing an indulgent smile. 

“Why don’t you—like you said, give me the tour,” says Quentin. 

“Well, to begin,” she says. “A lot of these items are impact toys. Hitty.”

“I figured,” says Quentin.

“So, generally we talk about impact toys as having one or both of two qualities. Do you know what they are?”

“‘Less painful’ and ‘more painful?’”

“He’s cute,” she says to Eliot. 

“I like to think so,” Eliot says.

“‘Thud’ and ‘sting,’” says Vi. ‘Sting’ is a sharp, surface sensation. ‘Thud,’ you tend to feel it deeper in your body. That doesn’t necessarily mean that it’s more painful. Either could be really mild to super intense, and also different people respond differently. Myself, I can take a lot of thud---it feels like a really good deep tissue massage to me—but I hate sting. Which is what makes it hot for me, hating it, but that’s a whole ‘nother topic. Do you want to see what that feels like?” 

He’s picked up a small black oval paddle; the handle feels rubbery, as does the surface.

“That’s silicone,” she says. “Try it on your hand.”

He does so, tentatively, then a little harder.

“Sting?” he says.

“Yeah, that would be,” she says. “Thinner, smaller, and/or harder surface is usually stingier. Something small and light like that is good for more targeted, precision strikes. You could use it for genital spanking. Now, this one—“

Vi picks up a wider, heavier looking paddle, but her patter is interrupted by a shriek. 

The young woman has a series of rapidly reddening weals down one still-raised arm; Greg, holding the string of clips he’s just removed, is just walking around to her other side.

“That,” says Vi, “is called a ‘zipper.’” As if to punctuate her words, Greg yanks the clips off the young woman’s other arm. She just whimpers a little this time. 

“…This one is leather,” Vi finishes, handing Quentin the maroon paddle by the handle. “Try it.”

Obediently, Quentin slaps the leather surface against his palm.

“So, that’s got a little more of a thud.”

Quentin nods. Thoughtfully, he tries again, a little harder. He looks over at Eliot again, who’s put his hands behind his back, standing still, just watching him with that little half-smile. They make eye contact and hold it. A slow warmth flushes through Quentin’s body. His jeans are a little too tight to be comfortable. He swallows. Puts the leather paddle down, turns to Vi.

“What else?” he asks.

Vi walks him through an array of items, from the faintly ridiculous (a scant fistful of tiny neon rubber strings topped with feathers, resembling nothing so much as a cat toy) to the truly terrifying (an enormous, heavy bat riddled with holes; the holes, Vi assures Quentin, make it hurt more). They discuss the relative merits of various materials as Quentin tests each against his skin: flat, smooth, unyielding wood; warmer, more flexible leather, punctuated with cold metal; soft, comforting bunny fur. (This last loses any appeal when, in a sudden cold sweat, Quentin considers the outraged reaction of the Fillorian Messenger Union). 

“All right,” says Vi, “so far, what I’ve been showing you is pretty straightforward. You might want a little practice, especially with some of the heavier toys, but I wouldn’t say you exactly need special training to use them. Now we come to the slightly more complicated items.” She indicates. Multistranded whips hang on a rack, artfully displayed as the pots on their kitchen wall.

“These are floggers,” she explains. “Again, they can be more thuddy or more stingy, heavier or lighter. They do take a little more practice.” She picks one off by its braided handle. “This one’s on the lighter side. Suede.” She lets Quentin touch the soft, slightly grainy strands. “You also really want to consider the weight here, and the right length for you. How the grip feels.” She goes into some technical detail about “balance” and how to check for quality. Quentin’s starting to experience information overload.

“So now,” Vi continues, taking the flogger back from Quentin, “we get to the fun part. It’s a little counterintuitive at first. Let me show you.”

She demonstrates a few techniques: a basic “throw,” passing the strands through one hand, and then a circular motion.

“Do you want to try?”

Quentin takes the lighter flogger from her as she picks up another. Standing a little behind and to the side of her, he copies her movements.

“And then, when you get a little more comfortable, you can try this.”

Vi moves her flogger in what Quentin eventually susses as a kind of figure eight. It’s a little more challenging, but he’s beginning to see how it could be fun.

“Is there anything I could…hit?”

“Sure,” she says. “Tell you what, let’s move these to the other end of the table…”

For a few engaging minutes, he practices on the bare expanse of wood. Clumsy, but he thinks he might get the hang of it eventually. It’s not like he hasn’t learned how to do tricky things with his hands before.

Vi looks, finally, at Eliot. “I hope you’re not feeling left out.”

“Not at all,” Eliot smiles.

“Did you want to try one of these out? You look like you’ve handled a flogger before.”

“It’s been a while,” Eliot says modestly as he approaches. Musing over the selection briefly, he selects one that’s long, heavy looking, solid black. He flexes his hands, snaps a couple of practice throws. Stepping back, he moves into a fluid infinity pattern, faster and faster, striking the same small patch on the table with each pass. 

“Oh yeah,” says Vi, “you’ve done this.” 

Eliot smoothly reverses the motion for a few strokes before winding to a halt. 

“Thanks,” he says. “By the way, I hope we’re not keeping you.” 

Greg’s on his phone, apparently uninterested in the flogging lesson. The clothespin girl has disappeared.

“Don’t worry about it,” says Vi. “To be honest, it’s a slow night. We’re probably going to start putting stuff away pretty soon, but you know, if you two want to play up here for a little while, it’s probably your best chance to get to use any of the furniture without waiting.”

She indicates a large wooden X-shaped cross that Quentin hasn’t noticed until now, probably because he’s been preoccupied.

Eliot raises his eyebrows at Quentin.

A thrill runs through him.

“Um,” he says. “Sure.”

Eliot cocks his head. “There’s no pressure, you know.”

“I know,” says Quentin. He grins a little. “What do you think?”

“You looked like you were having fun,” says Eliot. “Want to practice on me?”

“What, with the flogger?”

“Or whatever,” Eliot says. 

Quentin hms a bit. He’s a little tempted. Just…not as much. One day, he decides. 

“I think, you,” he says. “You’re better at it.”

“That’s not a reason,” says Eliot.

“It’s not the only reason,” says Quentin. 

“Well,” Eliot says. “If you’re sure.”

“I’m sure,” says Quentin. “So, where?”

“If you want to use the St. Andrew’s cross,” says Vi, “—yeah, that thing, you just stand—“ 

Quentin’s already moved to experimentally place himself against it, face first. 

“Yeah, exactly. Fairly intuitive.” 

Quentin looks back at Eliot expectantly.

“Hang on,” says Eliot. “Why don’t you show me what you want me to use.”

“Oh—“ Quentin rejoins him at the table. “I don’t—I trust you. Uh, the floggers, I guess. Maybe not the really heavy ones. …Or that one with the thorns.”

“Anywhere you don’t want me to hit?” Eliot asks.

“My face?” 

“Yeah,” says Eliot. “Anywhere on the back half, below the neck?”

“I think that’s all good,” says Quentin. He hesitates. “Should I take my shirt off?” 

“That’s up to you,” says Eliot. 

But it’s a silk shirt, Quentin thinks; even if he doesn’t say so, Eliot will hate it if it gets ripped. He tells himself that’s why he’s doing this, as he slowly unbuttons the shirt and slides it off. 

“Nice ink,” Vi remarks.

“Thanks,” Quentin says briefly. Best to avoid that conversation if possible. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Eliot remove his long violet coat and roll up his shirt sleeves. 

He goes to stand against the wooden X. Places his wrists in the heavy leather cuffs without being asked. The nubbly lining is soft against his skin. Eliot comes up behind him. They exchange another look. Quentin nods. Eliot fastens the cuffs. 

“How’s that? Looser? Tighter?”

“Good, I think,” says Quentin. Eliot works a finger into the gap between the cuff and Quentin’s wrist. Satisfied, he steps back.

“Would you like a blindfold?” Vi says from behind them. Quentin feels a faint spark of irritation; he’d almost forgotten about her.

Eliot catches Quentin’s eye again. A conspiratorial little smile.

“Thanks,” Eliot says. “I think we’re good.” 

A moment later, his vision is blocked out by a soft silken filter of silvery green: Eliot’s tie. (“Cravat,” his mind reminds him. Some of Eliot’s fashion grimoire has penetrated after all, it seems).

“Good?” Eliot says in his ear. Quentin nods again. 

“Oh,” he remembers. “Should I have a safeword?”

“Yeah,” says Eliot. “If you want me to slow down, say ‘slow down.’ If you want me to stop, say ‘stop.’ Sound good?”

“That works.”

“And I’m going to keep checking in,” says Eliot. He places a hand on Quentin’s back, making small soothing circles. “Okay?”

“Okay.” 

He barely hears the footsteps going away. His heart is pounding in his ears. He closes his eyes against the silk.

A few beats later, he feels the first sweep of the flails against his skin.

He almost laughs out loud. It’s a gentle caress. Like fingers, he thinks dreamily, as the brushing strokes continue; like Eliot’s hands can reach him across the room. He rests his forehead against the wood. He’s dimly aware that he’s already in a somewhat altered state. 

They’ve only gotten to a place that Quentin experiences as slightly more impactful before he feels Eliot’s hands on his shoulders again.

“How you doing?”

“Great,” says Quentin. “Is that just, like, the warm up?”

Eliot laughs. “If that’s how you want it.” He runs his hands up and down Quentin’s arms, presses a kiss between his shoulder blades, walks away. 

After that, Eliot seems to mix it up a bit more, maybe getting in one solid thwack for every five or six light strokes. There’s a pause. Quentin thinks he might have switched out floggers: this one feels…splattier, he wants to say. He supposes that might be sting. He’s not sure he cares for it. Then, there’s another shift, and it feels like he’s getting pummeled by tiny fists. That feels better, even when it gets more intense.

“You okay?” Eliot’s hands are soothing over his back.

“Mhm. You can keep going.”

“You’re actually getting pretty red. If you want me to keep going, I think maybe let’s give this a rest and…” Eliot’s hand moves down to his ass.

“Sounds good,” Quentin says. He feels idiotically cheerful. 

Instead of going away this time, Eliot unexpectedly presses up against his back, full-body, putting his arms around him. 

“You know,” Eliot murmurs into his ear, “you have a little audience.”

“…Um,” Quentin says. “'K. So?”

“So,” Eliot says. He brushes a strand of Quentin’s hair from his cheek; Quentin shivers a little. “I wonder how you feel about that.”

“Um,” Quentin says again. He’s a little giggly.

“Mm,” says Eliot. He brings his lips to Quentin’s ear again:

“You didn’t ask me if you should take your pants off.”

This time, Quentin can’t seem to reply at all.

“I’m not going to take your pants off,” Eliot whispers. “I just think that you should think about that.”

Quentin moistens his lips. Eliot gives his ass a little squeeze before returning to his station.

Up until now, it’s been sensual, even erotic, but in a diffuse sort of way. This, though, the steady percussion on just that spot…

“Are you trying to squirm away, or is that something else?” Eliot’s voice carries across the room. _Audience,_ thinks Quentin, and shudders, thankful to be able to hide his face and the front of his body. He arches in anticipation of the next blow.

It doesn’t come. Instead, there’s a low murmur of voices, and then, Eliot’s back with him. Quentin blinks muzzily as the makeshift blindfold comes off.

“Sorry, Q,” says Eliot. “They’re packing up. But…” He unbuckles the cuffs, gently massaging Quentin’s arms as he does so. Quentin stumbles a little stepping down; Eliot catches him.

“You okay?”

“Mm,” says Quentin. He realizes that isn’t an answer. “Yes,” he clarifies. He looks Eliot in the face. “Thank you.” 

“Okay,” says Eliot. He pulls Quentin in for a hug. “You did very well.”

Quentin laughs a little. He’s probably embarrassed, but mostly he just feels kind of…high, right now.

“Sorry,” Vi says. “I’d have let you keep going, but Greg has to go home and I have a DM shift now, and there’s no one else to watch the stuff.”

“Please,” says Eliot. “You’ve been more than generous. Thank you so much.”

She’s putting the last of the toys into a wheeled suitcase, which she locks shut. Greg takes the handle and trundles it away somewhere.

“I’ll go downstairs with you, if you want to stick around,” she says. “I can show you a couple of things before I go on duty.”

“What do you think?” Eliot asks Quentin. “Onward and downward? Or are you ready to go home?”

Quentin doesn’t take too long to think about it. “Let’s go down.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Onward and downward. Q and Eliot continue their explorations, and meet an old friend for the first time.

Eliot takes Quentin by the hand as they descend after Vi. Q’s clearly still floating, and the lighting is decidedly inadequate for such a steep stairwell. Something to keep in mind. Still, he thinks, there’s a lot to recommend here, and that’s relatively trivial to rectify. 

“Actually, this is the largest active dungeon in the city right now,” Vi is saying.

Eliot rolls his eyes behind her back at the inevitable word. Real dungeons are nothing to write home about. He ought to know. Well, it’s called “play” for a reason, he supposes.

“What’s the square footage here, do you know?” he asks her.

“About 8000,” she replies. “It feels bigger, though, because of the layout.” 

It is impressive, Eliot has to admit, with its vaulted ceiling extending up to the second floor. Someone’s invested in a good lighting designer; it could pass for a decent-sized theatre in the round. 

There’s even a sort of “backstage” behind the huge open area. One largish room equipped with cushions, soft lighting, more food, downtempo music. Catty-corner to the chill-out space, there’s a warren of tiny rooms not much bigger than a closet; the ones with windows reveal mattresses that take up the entire space, most bearing couples and trios and moresomes disporting themselves in various ways.

“I have to start my shift now,” says Vi, “but if you have any more questions about the venue, you know how to get in touch.”

“Thanks so much again,” Eliot says warmly. “Lovely meeting you.”

He’s lost Q. Turning a corner in the little rabbit maze, Eliot finds him gazing through a window at a het couple engaging in PIV sex. Eliot can’t really fault Quentin—at least it’s one of the more improbably acrobatic positions he’s seen outside of porn—but there are certainly more interesting things to look at.

“Come,” he says, “mustn’t gawk. You’re already overexcited, and also it’s tacky. Let’s get you some water and peeled grapes.” 

“I thought gawking was the whole point of an orgy,” says Quentin, but he lets Eliot lead him away to the chill room.

“A play party is not an orgy,” Eliot says. “Even if they do allow sex.” They settle into a drift of cushions, speaking in low voices. 

“What’s the difference?”

“Oh, my sweet summer child,” says Eliot. “Remind me that I also need to bring you to your first orgy.”

“You really love the idea that you’re corrupting me, don’t you?”

Eliot shrugs and smiles. 

“Anyway,” says Quentin, “I’ve been to an orgy.”

Eliot scoffs. “Those glorified house parties we used to throw at the Cottage do _not_ count. Forget whatever I said at the time.”

“The first time I went to Alice’s house, they were having an orgy.”

Eliot laughs loudly. He quickly stifles it down to a more chill-room-appropriate snicker. “Seriously?”

“Yeah, her…dad was into historical magic. Ancient Rome, I guess, especially.”

“So, she brought you home to meet her parents, and you walked in on them in the middle of a Roman orgy?”

“Basically,” says Quentin. He’s beginning to look chagrined. 

“That explains a lot,” says Eliot.

“Don’t,” Quentin says quietly. 

“Sorry,” says Eliot, not feeling terribly sorry. He refrains from pointing out that Q was the one who brought her up. 

They lie together quietly for a bit, soaking in the ambience and eating chocolate. This would be better with a nice glass of red, Eliot thinks. Would it really kill them? Even the Bastille didn’t serve their prisoners cola, for god’s sake.

Well. Here’s someone fabulous. Steampunk nanny, possibly on her way to a Black Mass, stalks into the room, towing two “charges” in full Edwardian child drag. She’s got the one in the sailor suit by an ear. She points to a spot on the ground near Quentin and Eliot. 

“Sit,” she says sternly.

“I want a cookie,” Sailor Suit says plaintively. 

Evil Mary Poppins props her black goggles on her auburn topknot and pins Sailor Suit with a legitimately terrifying glare.

“You don’t get a cookie.”

Sailor Suit is practically in tears. 

The other one sits, legs tucked primly under a froth of petticoats. Satanic Nanny pulls a Disney coloring book and a pack of crayons from her large black bag, along with an ominous looking brown glass bottle. Spoonful of sugar, or something more interesting? 

“Margo would rock that look, don’t you think?” Eliot says in an undertone. 

Quentin doesn’t reply. Eliot turns to look at him. His face is a study. 

“Littles in the dungeon. Fun,” Eliot remarks. Quentin nods slightly. 

“They’re very cute,” Eliot offers.

Q nods again and looks away in the least convincing affectation of nonchalance Eliot’s ever seen. Eliot regards him with compassion. 

“Do you—“ Quentin clears his throat. “Do you want to see what else is going on out there?”

“Sure,” Eliot says gently. He stands, starts to extend a hand to Q; then, on an instinct, checks himself, waiting instead for Quentin to get to his feet. But then—also on instinct, he can’t help it—he’s moistening a finger, dabbing away the chocolate smear on Q’s chin. Quentin’s face crimsons to the point that, in the dim light, the smudge wouldn’t be visible anyway. 

“Thanks,” he mutters, walking ahead of Eliot.

All right. In his own time. 

They perambulate the room, stopping at various stations to watch from an appropriate distance. Vi wasn’t wrong: it is a little on the sedate side. Also, as per norm for a “pansexual” party, the overall vibe is fairly het-dominated, and he’s only seen one other obvious male couple. They pause in front of a rigger dangling his doxy from a suspension bar.

“AKA human macrame,” Eliot murmurs.

“I take it you’re not into rope.”

“Especially from a voyeur’s perspective. Look at them. It’s like watching the Fishing Channel. At least fish don’t also bore you to death talking about knots. Why, are you interested?”

“If I was, probably not anymore,” says Quentin.

“Sorry,” says Eliot. “Don’t mean to kink shame. If you’re interested in tying, I’m flexible.” He rolls his eyes. “That was unintentional.”

“I don’t know,” says Quentin. “Mostly it reminds me of Junior Cowboy Camp.”

“‘Junior Cowboy Camp?’”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” says Quentin.

“I understand,” says Eliot. “We’ve all got our unique traumas to bear.”

They move on.

“You know,” says Eliot, “a lot of this is Muggle shit. These people want to be immobilized, fuck upside down, maybe feel like they’re flying. We can do better than that.”

Quentin raises his eyebrows. “Point.” 

“But also,” says Eliot, “I was starting to say, if you’re interested in playing with someone else, it’s not a problem.”

“…Oh,” says Quentin. “I—okay? You… so, ‘playing’ would mean what?”

“We can talk about it,” says Eliot.

There’s a small cluster of people gathered here, a good distance away from the players they’re watching. Obviously you never want to crowd a woman wielding a signal whip, but Eliot feels the instinct to give this one a particularly wide berth.

She’s tall, slim, red-haired, stunning. Her black catsuit might be literally painted on. Teeth bared in a ferocious grin, she’s practically dancing, the whip one long fluid extension of her arm. The woman whose breasts and thighs she strikes is the very picture of martyrdom: red-streaked body perfectly illuminated, black-streaked face a mask of ecstatic agony. 

Eliot glances sideways. Q’s utterly transfixed. 

Perhaps tired of sharing the spotlight, the redhead abruptly reels in her whip and strides over to her victim. Brusquely, she hauls her off the cross. Grabs a thick fistful of hair, yanks her head back, spits in her face. Drags her over to the nearest spanking bench and pushes her down, with a solid black boot to the ass for good measure. Kneels, shoves a knee between her legs, forcing them wide apart. One shiny black hand scuttles, spiderlike, between the woman’s thighs. Without further preamble, it disappears almost all the way up her cunt.

They watch the entire performance, mostly because Q still seems rapt. Eliot’s less impressed, especially after a while. She’s playing to the cheap seats; it’s overblown, and she’s not as invested in her bottom as she should be. There’s a part of him that admires her unfettered brutality, though. Elegant, in its way. 

Eventually, they wind down. The redhead peels off her gloves and goes to dispose of them. Evidently she has flunkies to take care of her partner, not to mention most of the cleanup. Work it if you’ve got it, he supposes. 

Quentin indicates that he’s thirsty. There’s a smaller, less discrete area for beverages and chat near the staircase. Eliot leans against the banister and takes a swig of Canada Dry, for want of anything more prepossessing. 

“I’m ready to go whenever you are, by the way,” he says to Quentin.

Q starts to reply and then stops. He looks like a bird that’s seen a snake. Eliot turns around. Sure enough, there’s Indiana Jane, coming straight at them. 

“I don’t say this to every man,” she greets Eliot, “but you look a lot better not covered in blood.” She tilts her head. “I don’t remember your name.”

“That’s fine, really,” says Eliot, staring. 

She turns to Quentin, a smile on her red lips. 

“And you,” she says. “You’re very different here, aren’t you. Hi, Quentin.” 

There’s a peculiar energy behind the words. 

“Do I know you?” Quentin’s voice is faint. Eliot notes that he still can’t seem to take his eyes off of her.

She makes an adorable little face. “Not exactly. We have a friend or two in common. Julia Wicker? Josh Hoberman? Penny…whatever his last name is.”

“Ah, yes,” says Eliot. “Of course.” 

It should have been obvious from the first second that she’s one of them. Still, this is weird even by “community” standards. 

“Sorry,” she says, nose crinkling in another smile. She touches a hand to her chest. It’s all theatre. Her blue eyes are bright and hard. “I’m Marina.”

“Delighted,” says Eliot. 

“Adiyodi,” says Quentin. 

“What?” says Eliot.

“Penny’s last name,” Quentin clarifies.

“Well,” says Marina, “you two enjoy yourselves. Catch you on the flip side.”

She plucks Eliot’s soda from his unresisting hand and walks off, drinking.

Quentin looks at Eliot.

“I have _no_ idea,” says Eliot. 

“Do you think she—“

“And I find myself not caring,” interrupts Eliot. “Let’s go home, shall we?”

*

“Tired?” Eliot murmurs. Quentin shakes his head. His eyes are dark as he moves in, open-mouthed. Hungry. His hands slide up and under Eliot’s shirt. 

Q’s tongue is so soft.

“What,” Eliot breathes between kisses, “do you want?”

Quentin slides a hand between Eliot’s legs, cups him and squeezes him through his trousers. 

Eliot softly bites Quentin’s lower lip. “That’s not an answer,” he says, even as he pushes back into Q’s hand. When Quentin doesn’t respond, Eliot moves a hand to the back of his neck and scruffs him. Pulls him away.

“Tell me.”

Q licks his lips. His Adam’s apple bobs.

“Could you fuck me?”

Eliot kisses him again. “Yes.” He smiles a little. “Is that what you want?” 

Quentin groans softly. Eliot cups his cheek.

“Don’t roll your eyes at me. Do you _want_ me to fuck you?”

“ _Yes._ ” With an apparent effort to get the edge out of his voice, Quentin repeats:

“I want you to fuck me. Please,” he adds.

“Good,” says Eliot. “Take off your clothes.”

Q looks up at him, unbuttoning. There’s a smile tugging the corners of his mouth.

“We were doing this all along, weren’t we?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Eliot says, straight-faced. “Go get the lube.”

As he does, Eliot takes off his shirt; and, when Quentin turns around and is able to see him, his belt. Very slowly. He folds it over, letting Quentin’s gaze rest on it, before setting it aside. 

“Take my cock out.”

Quentin does so. He begins to stroke him with the lube. Eliot catches his wrist.

“Did I tell you to do that?”

Quentin looks at him uncertainly. 

“We’ll overlook it this time. Keep going.”

He stands, eyes slitted in pleasure, as Quentin slowly runs his hand up and down his increasingly slick cock. 

“All right,” he says. “Get on the bed.”

He contemplates Quentin’s beautifully prone body. Runs his hands appreciatively over his back, admiring his own work.

“You’ve got some nice marks coming up,” Eliot says. “They’ll probably fade in a day or two.” He traces one with his finger. Quentin shivers.

Eliot runs his hand down to Quentin’s ass, fondling. Quentin arches his back and glances over his shoulder.

“Did you like me hitting your ass?” Eliot asks softly, still rubbing. Quentin just nods. Eliot relents.

“Do you want some more?” At Quentin’s nod, Eliot strikes him, quick and open-handed. Pauses to watch the red come up. God, he’s a pleasure to mark. 

He spanks him for a little while, alternating sides, varying cupped and flat palm, harder and softer. Quentin’s bouncing under his hand, making low soft noises.

“You needed this,” Eliot remarks, still smacking. 

“Huh,” Quentin breathes.

“We’re going to have to talk about that, says Eliot. “I think you need to be spanked more often.” He punctuates with one last hard slap. “Enough for now.” He slathers more lube onto himself. Squirts still more into his hand. Begins to work his slippery fingers into Quentin’s ass.

“In fact,” Eliot says as he slowly rotates, “we’re going to have to talk a good deal more. About what you need.” He crooks a “come here.” Quentin lifts his head and bites his lip. He’s grinding restlessly against the mattress.

Eliot tries to work in another finger, but it’s tight. 

“I don’t know, Q,” he says in a more normal voice.

“Can’t you try?”

“Honestly, it’s not a race, Q.”

This is the third attempt they’ve made. 

“What about that thing?”

“Thing,” Eliot says blankly. “Oh. Poppers? I thought you didn’t want to do that.”

“I can try it,” says Quentin. 

Eliot shrugs. “Hang on.” The little bottle’s in their dresser drawer. Eliot’s not averse to a pick-me-up for solo play. 

“All right,” he says. He twists the cap off and holds out the bottle. There's a sharp smell of nail polish remover.

“Not too deep,” says Eliot.

Quentin sniffs briefly, once, twice. He flushes an alarming shade of scarlet. Eliot hastily puts the bottle aside.

“Are you okay?”

The color’s already fading. Quentin drops back down, laughing a little breathlessly. 

“Do it.”

This time, two fingers and then three go in almost effortlessly. After a few thrusts, Eliot withdraws his hand and straddles Q.

“Still okay?”

The dark blond head bobs. 

Eliot pushes in. 

It’s like pulling on his favorite suede-lined gloves.

He slips his hand under them to take hold of Quentin’s cock. Eliot pauses. It feels like he’s trying to shift away.

“Do you not want me to do that?”

One shoulder seems to lift. 

“No, tell me,” says Eliot. “Do you want me to stop?”

Quentin shakes his head. “You…” He speaks a little groggily. “Fuck me. Please. Just…” He pushes lightly at Eliot’s hand. Eliot withdraws it. Presses his hips forward again. He slides his arm up around Q’s chest instead.

“Okay?”

Q nods. After a moment, he works his hand up to hold Eliot’s.

They settle into a rhythm. Q pulls and tugs at the covers, biting his lip, hips undulating easily. He starts to keen as Eliot speeds up, soft, high, breathy little moans. “Oh,” he says suddenly, “oh, God,” and shudders into the bed.

“Good,” says Eliot, panting, “good, good, good…” 

As he reaches his own climax, there’s a sudden unexpected rush of emotion. Tears prick his eyes. He’s not sure where it’s coming from. 

Just before he drops into sleep, he realizes that he never stopped holding Q’s hand.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eliot reveals his plans to Q. Josh gets a message.

For once, he’s actually awake before Q, who’s curled up like a puppy, complete with tiny little snores. He swings out of bed. This must be what “morning people” feel like, he speculates. It’s surely morning _somewhere._

He stretches, flexes his hands, goes through Popper scales just for the hell of it. Visible sparks fly off his fingers. He’s feeling energized. Creative inspiration, he thinks, looking at Q fondly. He stoops to press a kiss on his forehead.

Q blinks at him sleepily. “Hi.”

“Go back to sleep,” says Eliot. 

“It’s okay. What time is it?”

“Time,” says Eliot. “Silly concept. I say we do away with it.”

“Jane Chatwin might have known how,” Quentin says. 

“I wasn’t being literal,” says Eliot. 

“Sorry,” says Quentin. 

“Nothing to be sorry about,” says Eliot. The expansive balloon of his good mood can’t be punctured that easily. He sits on the edge of the bed, pushing Q’s hair back. Q grins at him shyly.

“I had fun last night.”

“Good,” smiles Eliot. “That was the idea.”

“Hey, what was the other reason you wanted to go there? You said there was something else.”

“Ah,” says Eliot. He clears his throat. “So, Josh and I are collaborating on a little project. Maybe not so little. Do you remember Julia’s suggestion about starting a business?”

“…Oh,” says Quentin. “Okay. Wow. Wait, really? Like—a club, or?”

“Well, that’s a question,” says Eliot. “There are a number of ways this could go. At first we were thinking, we both do food and wine, so, catering makes sense…”

“Oh,” says Quentin, the light clearly dawning.

“Right,” says Eliot. “But then, we thought: well, we each have other strengths as well. I’m good at design, music, ambience. Josh is good at…chemistry. Why limit ourselves? We could do any style of party and make it spectacular: country club, underground dining, fetish ball, Burning Man… We’d be protean party planners.” 

“Is that your brand name?” says Quentin. He’s not looking overwhelmed with enthusiasm. Well, that’s his little Eeyore.

“We’re open to suggestions,” he says.

“It sounds great,” says Quentin. “Really. That’s…exciting. So, does that mean a lot more dinner parties?” 

“I know they’re horribly tedious. I’m sorry.” 

“It’s not really the dinner part…”

“I know,” says Eliot. “You don’t have to say it. My friends are horrible, tedious people. But they’re horrible, tedious people who can collaborate or put up seed money, and/or pay a lot of money to go to our events.”

“I mean…some of them are okay?”

“I’ll make it up to you,” says Eliot. “Hopefully things will settle down a little once we pick an initial project. Meanwhile: Fun is the point.” 

He puts a hand on Quentin’s cheek. “I want you to have fun, too. You, more than anyone.”

Quentin smiles. Eliot kisses him.

“Hungry?”

“Ish?”

“Want me to make us a tray?”

“You don’t have to do everything, you know,” says Quentin.

“You’re right,” says Eliot, “Let’s make Josh bring us a tray.”

“You can’t just make him do things,” says Quentin. His voice is taking on a contented, sleepy fur again. “You’re not a king anymore.”

Eliot puts a hand over his heart. “So brutal.”

“Anyway, I don’t want him up here,” says Quentin.

“Fair point,” says Eliot. “So, plan A?”

“Fine, twist my arm,” says Quentin. He closes his eyes.

*

“Well, good morning,” says Josh.

“Really?” 

“Technically afternoon, but who’s counting.“

“My sentiment exactly,” says Eliot. “Incidentally, why are you fisting a turkey?”

Josh pauses, hand full of blackish paste. The damp, earthy smell of truffles drifts over. “I thought we decided yes on the turkey.”

“For…?”

“Thanksgiving?” Josh turns around when Eliot doesn’t respond. “Tomorrow?”

“Ah,” Eliot says cleverly. 

“Jesus,” says Josh. “What exactly do you remember from the past week?”

“Last night, primarily,” says Eliot. He sits, plucking a pear from the fruit bowl. “You weren’t part of it.”

“Obviously,” says Josh.

“And how was your evening?”

“I was here, mostly,” says Josh. “Seriously. Do you remember talking about tomorrow? Anything at all?”

“It comes back in pieces,” says Eliot. “We were keeping it small, yes?”

“Yes,” says Josh. “Just us and Julia.”

“That’s good,” says Eliot. “Q will like that.”

“And, possibly, Penny,” says Josh. “We didn’t actually talk about that. Julia asked me yesterday.”

“Interesting,” says Eliot. 

“Anyway, there’ll be leftovers,” says Josh. 

“You’ve been busy,” Eliot says. 

“Yeah…”

“I don’t suppose you’ve got anything of a more brunch-like nature in the works.”

Josh gazes briefly at the ceiling.

“Don’t give it a thought,” says Eliot.

“There’s some of the truffle left, if you want to make eggs,” Josh suggests.

“Beautiful.” 

“Also, your friend Janet came by earlier and dropped that off,” says Josh, gesturing with his chin. “She says thank you for Sunday.”

It’s a bottle of Krug. “Come to Daddy,” says Eliot. He puts the bottle back down immediately. “Warm,” he says accusingly.

“Christ.”

“Did you actually think we were going to save it?”

“There’s OJ in the fridge. You could make mimosas,” says Josh. “Best I can tell you.”

“You know what, it’s fine,” says Eliot. “I believe I’ll just put on some coffee instead.”

“Wow,” says Josh. “Heroic restraint.”

“From adulterating Krug with orange juice? Hardly. Besides,” says Eliot, “sometimes, you’re already having exactly the experience you want. Why gild the lily.”

“Sure,” says Josh. He goes back to his turkey. 

“Reminded,” says Eliot, watching Josh stuff the bird’s cavity with truffle butter. “Do you know someone called Marina?”

“Oh, god,” says Josh.

“Dear friend, I take it.”

“She’s, ah,” says Josh. “What makes you ask?”

“We had a little encounter last night. Me and Q. She seemed oddly hostile.”

“Well, that’s Marina,” says Josh. “Oddly hostile.”

“Neither of us remember meeting her before,” says Eliot. “Is there some clan feud I wasn’t aware of?”

“Well…”

“What?”

Josh finishes what he’s doing, cleans his hands, and sits down. 

“You know how Penny jumped over to our timeline? Did anyone tell you all the, ah, circumstances around that other timeline?”

“I may have been the tiniest bit preoccupied,” says Eliot. “Refresh my memory.”

“It’s…not important,” says Josh. 

“Okay,” says Eliot.

“The point is, Marina came over with him.”

“Aha,” says Eliot. “So, you knew her?”

“No,” says Josh. “Well, I did. Other me. Knew this Marina. I didn’t know the other Marina.”

“Other…”

“Other, other Marina. The one from this timeline. She’s dead.”

“Are there by any chance some shrooms also going into that turkey? I’m going to need a wee fistful if you want me to actually follow this conversation.”

“Like I said, it doesn’t matter,” says Josh. “What matters is: she’s not someone you want to know.”

“Yeah, I got that part,” says Eliot. “I am asking how she knows me. —Other, me—god, whatever. Or Q. Especially Q.”

“Ah,” says Josh. “Well. My understanding is that you—other you— were already dead when we got there. Then. You know.”

Eliot lips thin into a smile.

“Yes,” he says. “Dying in an alternate universe. Seems like all the kids are doing it these days.”

“Hey, I did. Right in front of me,” says Josh.

“Charming,” says Eliot. “I infer that I may have died in front of Marinara. ‘Covered in blood,’ she said. Sounds very Grand Guignol. I certainly hope it wasn’t traumatic for her.”

“Ghost loop, apparently,” says Josh.

“Well,” says Eliot. “That sounds tiresome.” He stands. “On that note.”

It’s not until he’s actually taking a piss that he realizes Josh hasn’t told him what happened between “other” Q and psycho undocumented multiverse immigrant. 

Whatever. He’s supremely uninterested in metaphysics. He has a pounding headache now, and he isn’t even hung over. As far as he’s concerned, what happens in Bizarro World stays in Bizarro World, or it fucking well ought to. Penny is tolerable—well, he’s as tolerable as his former incarnation, in his way, which is a pretty low bar. Regardless, he’s here, that’s that, so, fine. If he’s not having an existential crisis about it, why should anybody else?

As for this woman, she’s clearly a malevolent nutjob. It doesn’t matter why. It’s not his problem and it certainly isn’t Q’s. 

He washes his hands and splashes cold water on his face. Threads his fingers through his hair, squinting critically at himself; he needs a better deep conditioner.

As he does this, he discovers a glint of silver.

He looks at it in polite disbelief. It doesn’t mean anything at first; it just…doesn’t belong. It’d be like Todd showing up at one of his evening soirees, dressed in board shorts and demanding banana daiquiris. So sorry, you’ve mistaken the address: there’s the door.

It’s still there. Not enough to be visible without coming up close, but more than just a couple of hairs. A small patch, mostly concentrated near the left temple. 

All right. Plenty of people get some grey before they turn thirty. It’s not a big deal. Some people find it distinguished. 

He starts to leave; he can’t help himself, he turns back to peer at the streak again. It’s miniscule. He’s being ridiculous. He’s twenty-eight, not seventy-eight. Not white-haired, stooped over and breathless, trying to pick up a heavy clay tile with shaking, spotted hands. Sitting in a hand-carved chair, dimly aware of the tightening in his chest but too tired to worry about it; he’ll get up and take another spoonful of hawthorn tincture shortly, he just needs to rest for one more minute… 

His headache is a matched set of hammer drills behind his eyeballs. Pretty soon he’ll be blind, too, and he won’t have to look at his reflection at all. 

He rummages in the medicine cabinet. There’s got to be some Advil back here somewhere, if Josh could leave an inch of fucking space between all his 9000 strains of THC and CBD and DMT and whatever the hell other acronyms he’s bottling. Eliot pauses, picking one up. Maybe Nature Boy’s got the right idea when it comes to this shit. 

Maybe he should just eat something. 

Fuck. Q. Breakfast.

He returns to the kitchen just in time to catch the huge brown bunny pop onto the kitchen table. 

“Need fucking holiday,” it rasps. “Come get me, asshole.” 

“Bambi?” says Eliot. “What happened?” 

“How should I know?” says Josh. He gestures at the bunny. 

“Need fucking holiday—” the rabbit begins again.

“Yeah, we got it,” says Eliot. “Get off the table, rabbit, it’s unsanitary.”

Looking disapproving as only a rabbit can, it disappears, leaving a steaming pile of pellets in its wake.

“Every think about making hassenpfeffer?” says Eliot. 

Josh doesn’t respond. He’s just standing there with a big, foolish grin. Jesus.

“Well,” Eliot says, “this is fortuitous timing. Six for dinner, then.” He pops the bottle of Krug, takes out a couple of glasses. “Shall we celebrate?”

“You’re okay with warm champagne now?” says Josh.

“Fuck it,” says Eliot. “It’s too early in the day for coffee.” He clinks his foaming glass against Josh’s. “Chin-chin.”

“L’chaim,” says Josh. “To life.”

“To life,” echoes Eliot. “Absofuckinglutely.” 

He drains his glass in one long swallow. As Josh goes to get the button, he pours himself a refill.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quentin and Julia catch up and reminisce. Things get slightly meta.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A couple of lines are ganked more or less directly from S4 ep 4 "Marry, Fuck, Kill."

“So, how it’s been going?” asks Julia. 

Quentin pops the tab off his Coke. “Sort of… _Tale of Two Cities._ ”

“‘It was the best of times, it was the worst of times?”

“It…I mean, it’s nice when it’s just us, you know? That part’s the good time. It’s just…not happening as often, lately.”

He doesn’t even mean just him and Eliot, although he’s starting to wonder when they’re ever going to get an entire night to themselves again. The funny thing is, he sort of misses Josh. Even though it seems like he’s around at least as much as he was before. It used to be a little more…family style, Quentin wants to say. The last group dinner he enjoyed was Thanksgiving, and Margo made it abundantly clear that things were about to change, now that the sheriff was back in town.

“Let me get this straight,” she’d said to Julia. “You told the two most extra divas on the fucking planet to work in a kitchen together. With knives. And ovens. And fire.” 

Margo turned to Quentin. “You’re doing everything at your place.”

And, practically before Quentin could finish stuttering that they’ve _been_ doing everything at their place already, and as opposed to what _other_ place anyway, Margo moved Josh and herself into a garden apartment on the Upper West Side. 

“You’re always welcome over here, you know,” Julia says now. 

“Thanks,” he says. “I’m sorry I’ve been so crappy about getting back to you.”

“Well, you are living the glamorous life these days,” Julia teases.

Quentin rolls his eyes. “Yeah. Super glamorous.”

“At least you’re eating well, though, right?”

“Well…”

“Really, wow, not even that.”

Quentin raises a shoulder. “There’s just so much food, and a lot of it’s super rich. And, some of Josh’s stuff…”

“What?”

“He’s really into this Spanish chef who, I guess he does all these…chemistry tricks…with food? Like, cotton candy that’s made out of steak. Or, it looks like spaghetti but it turns out to be liquid. Only Josh is a Magician, too, so it’s like, different colored bubbles that taste like different parts of a salad, and also they float off the plate.”

“That actually sounds kind of cool. If potentially indigestible.”

“I’m not even sure some of it counts as ‘food’ anymore. The other day we had this soup, I think it was made from wood.”

“To be fair,” says Julia, “I’m not sure if that Coke is exactly food, either.”

Quentin sighs. “I know. I shouldn’t complain. I’m lucky.”

“You’re allowed to complain. Hey, I complain all the time.”

“You don’t, actually,” says Quentin. “You can if you want to.”

“Things are basically the same,” says Julia. “I haven’t learned anything new about myself. Oh, I did maybe get a break with the page.”

Quentin straightens. “Yeah?”

“You know how the writing looks like it’s hieroglyphics except for all the weird thorny shit in between? I decided to ignore the weird thorny shit and just focus on the hieroglyphics. It’s not _entirely_ unlike hieratic Egyptian, although most of it doesn’t look much like any other language we know about. But I looked at the repeated patterns, and I treated the symbols that did look like Egyptian like they actually are. It’s guesswork, because you don’t even know what the symbols mean outside of the whole context, and it might be coincidence. I’m not exactly an expert here, anyway. But…it seems like it _might_ be talking about creation.”

“Creation, like…”

“Cosmology.”

“So, like a religious creation story?” He’s thinking out loud. “You said it feels like it’s coming from a magic source strong enough to be god-powered. What if this is from a creation history written by an actual god?”

“Maybe. Or…it might be a spell.”

He stares. “A god-level spell about creation? I…holy shit. That’d be—“

“Like I said,” says Julia. “All I’m really doing here is guessing.”

“Right,” he says. “Don’t get too excited.”

“I didn’t say that. I just don’t know. Research-wise, we’re sort of cut off here, Q.”

“You know, we could probably go back to Brakebills at this point. Fogg’s gone. Nobody else seems interested in us anymore. And it’s not like Sunderland is Alecto Carrow.”

“It feels like everyone’s just sort of apathetic,” says Julia. “Or…waiting for something.” 

“I mean, I don’t exactly feel like trying to renew my Library card.”

“No one can go in, anyway. Or ever seems to come out. Penny said.”

“Oh yeah,” he says. “Penny. He still, uh, sweatin’ you?”

“He’s not ‘sweatin’ me,’ says Julia.

“Oh, okay,” says Quentin. “He was just acting like that at Thanksgiving because he _really_ wanted you to pass him the cranberries.”

“Quentin!”

“What?” he says. “I’m just saying. Maybe he could help you. With the research.”

“You’re a dick,” says Julia.

“I try,” he says.

“He seemed lonely, okay? It doesn’t mean anything. At least, not to me. I’m not there, and he’s…I don’t know. Not my type.”

“Sorry,” says Quentin.

“It’s not a thing to be sorry about. It just is what it is.”

“I’m not in the best place to judge, anyway,” he says.

Julia frowns. “What do you mean?”

“Oh…” He hesitates. “I, just, um. I’ve been thinking about things I’m not proud of, lately. One being that fight we had, you know, when you were—when you wanted me to tell Brakebills about you.”

“Q, that’s ancient history,” says Julia. “You already apologized for that. Ages ago. What’s up?”

“Yeah,” he says, “but not the part where I acted like an entitled fuckboy.”

“Again, ages ago,” says Julia. She wrinkles her brow. “I wouldn’t call Penny an entitled fuckboy.”

“No, I’m not saying that,” says Quentin. “Just reminded by the whole, ‘obviously into you but never actually says anything.’ He’s not trying to make you responsible for how he feels, right?”

Julia merely says, “People change.”

“I hope so,” says Quentin. 

“Seriously, Q,” says Julia. “You’re probably more sensitive to this shit than any other guy I know. Give or take some blind spots over the years.”

Quentin ducks behind his hair, then pushes it back. “Thanks.”

“Anyway,” she says. “If we’re on the subject. I’m more ashamed of what I did to you after that than anything else in my entire life.” 

She laughs a little bitterly. “It’s okay, you can look surprised. I know there’s a lot of competition in that area. It’s still the most deliberately cruel thing I’ve ever done. For a long time, I told myself that it wasn’t my idea, it was Marina’s, but. I was the one who was your friend. I knew what would hurt the most.”

“Marina?” he says.

“The Hedge who did the spell with me,” says Julia. “I thought you knew about that.”

“I guess I never realized what her name was,” says Quentin. 

“Anyway, she’s dead now,” says Julia. “Also not my proudest memory.”

“So, the Marina who came back with you from timeline 23, did I do something to her, or apparently it doesn’t matter with her, or…?”

“Oh,” says Julia. “Right, because…we never told you the whole story.”

He raises her eyebrows at her.

She tells him.

“I see,” he says. He can’t think of anything else to say.

“We just thought…everything was so crazy then, and I didn’t want to upset you…”

“I guess it’s good to know what I’m capable of, anyway,” says Quentin. “Wow, and I thought Penny from our timeline hated me.”

“I don’t think Penny23 hates you,” says Julia.

“No? I would.”

“Well, you shouldn’t,” she says. “He shouldn’t. If he does—well, one more reason. You’re not that Quentin, and I’m not ‘his’ Julia.”

“So—should I worry about Marina?”

“I don’t—I don’t even know where she went after she came through.”

“She’s here,” says Quentin. “We met her at, uh, a club. El thought she seemed like she had a thing for me, even before we knew anything about her.”

“Yikes,” says Julia. “I don’t know. Marina’s…complicated. I’d just say stay the hell away.”

They move on to lighter subjects: TV, books, mutually acquainted dumbasses on Facebook.

“How are the applications going?” says Julia.

“They’re going, I guess,” he says. “Okay, I’m a little stuck.”

“I can help you, if you want,” says Julia.

“Thanks,” he says. “It’s just…First of all, there’s a three year resume gap I need to explain. I decided to just say I was traveling. But then, I get to the essay of what I want out of the degree and why, and it’s like: well, basically, I can’t think of anything else I’m qualified for, and it’d be nice to get paid for nerding out. I’ll try not to forget in the middle of a lecture and say how actually, a lot of these stories are real, so everything you thought you knew about symbolism and allegory and shit, you can forget about it. It doesn’t actually mean anything. P.S., Dear tenure committee, I know you think I’m insane. I’ll see myself out.”

“So, that sounds a little depressed,” says Julia.

“Yeah, maybe.”

“Maybe you just don’t want to be a Muggle.”

“I mean, no. Of course I don’t. But I can’t think of a magical ‘career’ that fits, either. …Sorry. I know, at least it’s an option.”

“You know what?” says Julia. “I plan to figure this shit out for myself. I’m getting my magic back. One way or another.”

He smiles. Pit bull. 

“So, not going back to law school, then,” he says.

“You’d better be fucking joking.”

“I’m fucking joking.”

They go out to sit on the front step. It’s unseasonably warm for December. If “unseasonable” means anything anymore.

“Do you remember wanting to do anything else, growing up? Like…any of the sciences? You were good at all of them. Or music? You had flute.”

“Not really,” she says. “I wanted to be a professional figure skater for about five minutes.”

“Oh, yeah…Really, you wanted to do that for a living?”

“The one thing where I didn’t get first prize,” she says. “Maybe that’s why.”

“Hey, I remember that routine. You fell on your ass better than anybody else.”

She blows a raspberry at him.

“You don’t remember me saying I wanted to be anything when I grew up, do you?” he asks.

“Besides Martin Chatwin?” 

They’re both silent for a minute. 

Julia says, “I remember, before we got into Fillory, you were obsessed with the Oz books. You got me into them, too. Except there were too many for me and I got bored. And then, we were always fighting over who got to be Dorothy this time. At least with Fillory, we both got to be the hero protagonist.”

“…Oh,” he says. “Right. I guess I sort of forgot about that.” 

He feels…odd. 

Julia lights a cigarette. He takes one, too.

“So, he says. “Hero protagonist. That’s it, I guess. The only career I ever wanted. I’ll have to check craigslist.”

“How come you were never that into _Harry Potter,_ anyway?”

“I was,” he says. “You know I read all the books and went to all the movies. I liked them, I just…”

“What?”

“I didn’t see the point of a magic school, or, or an entire magic universe that turned out to be just as crappy and unfair as the mundane world.”

There’s a pause. Then, they’re both laughing hysterically. Quentin hasn’t laughed this hard in a long, long time.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Days of wine and cocktails. Margo is not here for it. Another old friend makes an unexpected appearance.

Quentin grips his glass of white wine—by the stem, yes, he remembers—and sighs deeply. 

It’s mid-December, but the weather inside the penthouse is positively balmy. The 1920’s high ceiling has been temporarily transformed, he doesn’t know by which Illusionist, into a sunny blue sky. Illusory bougainvillea twines around the trellis that’s replaced their sofa set and coffee table. Birdsong harmonizes with cool jazz drifting from invisible speakers. Magicians lounge on patio furniture or stand in clusters amid stands of flowers, chatting, laughing, and—of course—drinking. 

In theory it’s another “wine tasting” party, but half of them are drinking one or another of Eliot’s artisanal cocktails, and there doesn’t seem to be much structure to the whole thing, unlike some of the earlier wine tastings they’ve hosted. Wine bottles line the long side table. Every once in a while, a Magician or two or three will come over; help themselves to a glass of something; swirl it around and taste it thoughtfully; declaim observations to whoever’s standing nearby; and then, either pour the rest of the glass into a nearby bucket or—more often—finish it and pour another, with much less fanfare. 

“It’s a playful little thing,” a square-jawed, older man is saying, “not much definition, but very approachable. Feminine. Just a bit grassy in the nose, nothing too overpowering.”

“Are you getting cilantro at all?” asks the woman standing with him.

“Interesting,” says the man. “No, I can’t say that I am.’”

“Grape,” volunteers Quentin. “Definitely grape.”

Nobody laughs this time.

“The Beaujolais Nouveau could be considered somewhat grapey, if you favor that,” says the man. 

“Thanks,” Quentin says. “I’ll keep it in mind.” 

He refills his small plate with bread, sausage, and a few of the tiny vegetable tarts that Josh has just brought from the kitchen. Margo clacks over to them on dangerous-looking shoes that put her at an even height with Quentin. Not that she wouldn’t seem to tower over both of them anyway.

“I’m about to blow,” she announces.

Josh’s face drops comically. “But you just got here. Don’t you want to stay for the chocolate fountain?”

“We can do that at home,” Margo deadpans. She glances down her lashes at Quentin. “Sorry. Don’t mean to spoil your appetite.”

“You know what,” says Quentin, “you’re…not significantly changing my experience here, put it that way.” 

She cracks the tiniest smile at him. Turning to Josh: “If I’m not bored completely off my twat in the next five minutes, I’ll consider staying for another five. No guarantees.”

Josh smiles like she’s just agreed to marry him. 

“Make sure she tries the shrimp puffs,” Josh says. “I’ll be back.” He bustles back to the kitchen.

“You’re not shrimping me,” Margo says to Quentin. “Unless I get desperate.”

“It’s wonderful to see you too, Margo,” Quentin says politely. “As always.”

“Oh, Christ,” she says. “Don’t tell me you’re turning into one of these people.”

He grins. He can’t help it. 

“If I am, you can kill me,” he says.

“I don’t need your permission, Coldwater,” says Margo. She reaches around him to take a shrimp puff. “Jesus’ taint. Way to a woman’s heart is through her arteries. Don’t worry,” she adds, daintily licking her fingers. “You’re not actually capable of it.”

“Thanks,” he says, meaning it.

“So, which one of these will make me see stars and black out?” She flicks her hand at the wine table.

“I don’t think any of them are supposed to be that exciting,” he says. “That guy says this Chardonnay is ‘feminine’ and ‘approachable,’ though.”

“Great,” she says. “So you can skip the middleman and go directly to date raping your drink. What are you drinking?”

“I don’t even remember. —That one, I think.” 

As Quentin pours her a glass, Eliot emerges from his post behind the bar, flanked by Anthony and a woman whose name Quentin can’t remember. Janet, maybe.

“Of course I can mix,” Eliot says, pouring himself a huge balloon full of red wine. “I have a deeply sensitive and self-regulating palate. Mm. That’s a keeper. Is this the ’98 or the ’99?”

“You know, you don’t have to swallow _every_ time, Eliot,” says Janet. She has the slightly nasal drawl that Quentin always thinks of as legacy Ivy League. 

“Oh, he does,” purrs Margo. She comes over to Eliot, takes a sip from his glass, gives it back. “I taught him well.” She’s using the wide-eyed, faux-seductive mean-girl tone she used to put on in the early days of Quentin’s acquaintance. 

She drops the persona abruptly, along with about half an octave. “When we were blowing the same guys together. Sorry,” this to Janet, “did I ruin your little entendre?” 

Janet suddenly finds the hors d’oeuvres table very interesting. Anthony laughs. Eliot acts oblivious. He looks a little glassy, Quentin observes, and feels a slight twist in his gut.

“Cheese,” Eliot announces to the air. “I require cheese.” One of the other Magicians quickly begins to cut a slice off an enormous wheel of something runny. He vaguely reminds Quentin of Todd. 

Margo rolls her eyes. “Tell Julius ManChild he knows where to find me.” She eyeballs Eliot. “Both of them.” 

“Okay,” Quentin says resignedly. He watches her sashay out without so much as a nod to anyone else, Eliot included. He feels both validated and abandoned. 

“Enjoying yourself?” 

Quentin starts. “Sure,” he says. “How are you, Anthony?”

“Oh, getting by, getting by,” Anthony says vaguely. He gazes around the room. “I love what I’ve done with the place.”

“Oh,” Quentin says. “This was you?”

“Mm,” says Anthony. “What do you think?”

“It’s…yeah. Detailed. Good, um, illusion work. …Thanks.”

Anthony just smiles. Quentin fidgets. 

“So,” he says finally, “you were two years ahead of Eliot, right?”

“Three, I believe,” says Anthony. “Four? No.”

“Oh,” says Quentin. “I thought you knew each other from Brakebills.”

“Oh, no. We met at Encanto Oculto. Eliot,” he greets his approach, “do you mind if I tell your boyfriend how we met?”

“Why would I mind?” Eliot says around a cigarette. His eyes are slitted against the smoke.

“It was charming,” says Anthony. “I was charmed. It was a beautiful moonlit night. I was lying in my bed, alone, just having a breather and thinking about what to wear for the closing ritual. Suddenly, a face appeared at my open window. This handsome face—“ he reaches out and pats Eliot’s cheek. “And do you know what he did?”

By now, several other Magicians have gravitated toward them, listening. 

“He vomited,” says Anthony. “Into my room. It went on so long, I thought someone must have tried to give him an exorcism. At the end, he apologized and passed out. The next morning, he brought me flowers and apologized again, this time without passing out. We’ve been the best of friends ever since.”

“Completely true,” says Eliot, “except that it was the other way around, I wasn’t alone, and you didn’t bring me flowers, you brought a bottle of pixie-brewed absinthe you stole from the _regalo_ table. You’re lucky you weren’t cursed.”

“Who says I wasn’t?” says Anthony, spooning caviar onto his plate. 

Eliot turns to his audience. “Do you know why his last name is ‘Blanche?’ Because his parents knew he’d always have to rely on the kindness of strangers.”

Everyone, Anthony included, looks at him blankly. Eliot rolls his eyes.

“ _A Streetcar Named Desire?_ Learn your classics, miscreants.’”

“Not everyone is 107 years old, Eliot,” says Anthony. “Not that you don’t look good for it.” 

Eliot’s smile slips. He pours himself another glass of wine without responding. 

“I keep meaning to watch that,” says Miguel, a short, bearish man. Neither Eliot nor Anthony seem interested anymore. 

Quentin turns to Miguel gratefully; he’s one of the few people remaining here that he both somewhat knows and likes.

“El likes this place in Williamsburg that has a lot of classic movie nights. You know, the kind where they bring cocktails and food to your seats. We saw part of a film noir festival a few weeks ago…”

They eventually come to the inevitable subject of the holidays.

“I’m not sure if they’re planning anything or not, to be honest,” Quentin says. “I’m kind of out of the loop. I know they were thinking big dinner party right after New Year’s, and he’ll probably want to—we’ll probably go out on New Year’s Eve. Christmas—we were talking about going to my mom’s, but…”

“I understand,” says Miguel. 

“What about you?” 

“Probably resting at home. I’m getting top surgery on the 21st.”

“Oh,” says Quentin, “congratulations.”

“Thanks. Long time coming.”

“Was it…” Quentin hesitates, feeling himself hitting his wall of social skills. He tries to suppress the familiar flush of warmth.

“Just getting the money together. Insurance doesn’t cover.”

“Shit. I’m sorry.”

Serge, Miguel’s boyfriend, joins them. “We should probably get going,” he says.

“That seems to be a theme,” says Quentin. “At least, I hope so. —Sorry. I don’t mean you.”

Miguel laughs. “No worries. Sounds like you’re ready to go to bed.”

“I wouldn’t mind,” Quentin admits. He’s hitting his wall, period. Physically, emotionally. The various annoying conversations and background noises are starting to pound into an overwhelming jumble. 

“Seems like it’s winding down. Although, looks like someone just came in. …Two someones. Three?”

Quentin turns around. It’s Poppy. She looks about eleven months pregnant.

“Oh…shit,” he says. “Um. Nice seeing you. Excuse me. Um.”

He hesitates, torn between fleeing before she sees him and going over out of sheer curiosity. Before he can make up his mind, she spots him first.

“Quentin!” she calls. 

He pastes a smile on his face and walks over.

“Poppy,” he says. “It’s been a while. Um.” He pauses, trying to decide how to address the elephant sized belly in the room.

“I know,” she says. “We’ve both been through some changes.” She smiles and pats her stomach.

“Uh huh,” says Quentin. “So, Josh invited you?” 

“Yup,” Poppy says. “Seriously nice place. What’s the rent like?”

“It’s…Um, so, and where are you, these days?” He’s still holding his wine. It’s warm. He’s just stained his shirt hem, he notes dismally. 

“Just got back from an expedition to the Outer Hebrides. I’m actually looking for a place, if you know of anything?—“

“I don’t, sorry,” he cuts her off hastily. “Yeah, we—really lucked out with this apartment, New York’s gotten really--So, we’ve actually had some interesting encounters with dragons recently. I don’t know if Josh told you…”

He stumbles a little as he starts to recount their stories; it occurs to him belatedly that he doesn’t think Poppy needs to know about the page, much less the button. It leaves something of a hole in the narrative, though.

“Do you know about dragons living in the water between the Neitherlands fountains?”

“Oh, yeah,” Poppy says. “It’s not really water, you know. It’s a hyper-dimensional kind of…nothing. Well, it would be for us. Almost absolute zero temperature, sensory deprivation, no oxygen. They call it the _between._ It’s mostly used for travel. I guess some live there, but it’d be like living in your car. In the middle of winter. Not the most pleasant.” 

She brings her gaze, and hand, down to her stomach again. Quentin tries to look anywhere else.

“Josh says some were frozen out when magic was turned off? And some kind of fight? Or, like, a clan war?”

“Yeah, that was tragic. I have a colleague who specializes in trauma therapy who was working with the survivors. The fighting… well, there’s always something. They’re very territorial.”

“So, would there be more than one in the same waterway at the same time?”

“Not usually, unless they’re breeding. Why?”

“We saw at least four in Venice.”

“Really.”

“Yeah, and, um. They seemed like they were maybe following us.”

“Huh. Maybe they thought you were interesting. Weird.” Poppy helps herself to a glass of wine.

“Um,” Quentin says. “I don’t mean to, uh, but is that okay?”

“Oh, it’s totally fine,” Poppy says. “It’s good for them at this stage, actually.”

While Quentin is still struggling to respond, she adds,

“Now that you mention it, there might be more talk than usual about war. I don’t know exactly who it’s supposed to be with, but it’s not each other. It could be nothing. Sometimes they take their mythology a little too literally. Just like we do.” 

“Mythology?”

“The dragons say that they’re older than the gods. There are different stories. Some of them believe that they’re even older than the Old Gods, and they claim responsibility for most of creation. Other stories just say that they were created alongside the newer gods, or maybe a little before. Anyway, there’s a lot of rivalry and resentment in the stories, so, war. Old wars, ongoing wars, wars to come, big apocalyptic war to end all wars. Is that gravlax?” She helps herself.

“So, they…talk about going to war with the gods.”

“They talk about a lot of things,” she says with her mouth full. She swallows. “I’d take it with a grain of poetic license. It’s called mythology for a reason, you know?”

“Right,” he says. He’s watching her pile her plate with various kinds of seafood. “Hey, did they ever write these stories down? Is there some kind of sacred text?”

She looks at him like he’s an idiot. “What would they write with? They’re dragons. Anyway, why would they need to?”

“Right,” he says again. “Thanks, Poppy. That’s informative, actually. Oh, and, um. This is going to sound weird, but do you know if they ever just…give things away? Instead of trading?”

“Well, I don’t know anybody who does _that,_ ” Poppy says, and laughs.

“Okay,” he says. “Good talk. Nice to see you again, Poppy.”

“I mean,” she continues as though he hasn’t indicated he considers the conversation over, ”they certainly didn’t help me with this for free, I can tell you that.” She’s got her hand on her stomach again.

“‘This,’ meaning…”

“The semen,” she says, as though it should be obvious. “Let me tell you, collecting a hoard of that size and caliber? Not easy. I considered pulling out all my teeth—“

He closes his eyes. “I’m sorry. Are you saying that you…that the baby, is, is…”

“Yep!” she says cheerfully. “I’m going to be the first true mama of dragons. So it’s particularly important that we find the right place to nest. Gestation can take up to three years.”

His mouth works. He probably means to utter a fatuous “congratulations,” but he can’t even manage that. As he backs away, his hip bangs into something metallic and very solid; it’s the chocolate fountain, just wheeled in. Josh pokes his head around the side.

“Poppy!” he says. “Great to see you, beautiful!” 

As Poppy waddles forward to embrace Josh, Quentin slithers around the other side of the fountain. 

“Okay,” he says out loud to the people around him who aren’t actually asking if he’s okay. “Totally good.” 

Grabbing a couple of random pastries from the fountain’s multi-tiered lip, he bolts upstairs. He eats them in bed. There’s a strange vengeful satisfaction as crumbs get all over the sheets.

Eliot doesn’t come upstairs for several hours. Quentin’s been unsuccessfully trying to read himself to sleep with _The Wind in the Willows._

“Did everyone go home?”

“Yes,” Eliot says, unbuttoning his cuffs. “Finally.”

“Do you need help cleaning up?”

“All done,” says Eliot. He flops dramatically on the bed, face first.

“Sorry,” Quentin says insincerely. 

“No worries.” Eliot’s voice is muffled. 

Quentin takes a breath and lets it go. “Eliot.”

“Mm?”

He hesitates. 

“What?” Eliot turns to face him. 

Quentin regards his rumpled clothing and slightly bloodshot mien. 

“Just…next time you see Josh, or—anybody, really, you might want to give them a heads up that Poppy’s trying to get someone to let her stay with them, and, um. I wouldn’t.” Not that Margo would put up with it anyway, he thinks to himself. Still.

“Who’s Poppy?”

“You know, the dragon expert?”

“Really?” Eliot’s eyes half close when he laughs. “Dragon Lady was here? Did you get to talk to her about your page?”

 _“Your” page,_ Quentin thinks. “She’s not what you’d call a reliable narrator.”

“Mkay,” Eliot says agreeably. His eyes drift shut.

“Eliot. I can’t do this.”

The eyes open again. “What?”

“This, I—“ He lets his hand fall in his lap. “Or, I don’t know, just—I need a day off, Eliot. It’s been nonstop parties for weeks.”

“Has it, though?” Eliot considers. His face falls. “Jesus. You’re right. When’s the last time we had a day to ourselves?”

“That’s what I’m saying.”

Eliot sits upright. “Well, that won’t do. I’m canceling all further events until after the holidays. They can all just get their foie gras and cocaine ravioli down the street.”

“I—okay? I mean, not arguing. …Great. That sounds great. Thank you.”

Eliot kisses Quentin, soft and wine-scented.

“What do you want to do?” he murmurs, snuggling closer.

“Well,” Quentin says. “We can decide tomorrow? …I’m really tired, Eliot.”

“Okay,” Eliot mumbles. He’s out almost immediately, snoring gently against Quentin’s neck.

It takes Quentin longer to fall asleep.

He dreams of swimming in a cold, dark, silent sea. Somewhere in the unfathomable depths, titanic shapes circle. Ancient. Slow.

Waiting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The "Between" is a concept loosely taken from Anne McCaffrey's _Dragonriders of Pern_ universe.


	11. Chapter 11

Dinner is interminable.

Dishes come and go, come and go. There doesn’t seem to be any logical progression to the meal, as far as Quentin is concerned. What might be loosely termed an appetizer consists of one per person; a single hard tap with a tiny spoon on the shell releases a tiny flock of singing, jewel-toned birds that circle each diner’s head twice, then settle into open mouths to dissolve in sugary sweetness on the tongue. (Quentin keeps his mouth obdurately shut during this course). Amber skewers of lushly blooming flowers alternate with crispy tidbits that are, it is revealed after the guests have eaten them, fried honeybees, all on a plate made of honeycomb. Soups, made of everything from frozen herb vodka to marijuana stems to Pop Rocks randomly intersperse the meal all the way through what might be dessert in a normal situation; the last one Quentin can remember later is a deeply fishy concoction of thick white topped with orange starbursts. Sea urchin and merman sperm.

Quentin takes a hit off a “caviar vape”—three guesses whose creation this is--and tells himself that it’s not so bad. Like taking a deep breath on a pier. He just wishes it was something stronger. That will come later, of course, but he needs something right now: Richard, the square-jawed older Magician from the last wine-tasting party, is still talking. Quentin stabs a rubbery kraken ring onto his plate and tries, unsuccessfully, to focus on anything else.

**Author's Note:**

> The inspiration for this fic, which eventually became an entire series, was a quote from Hale Appleman in an _Out_ magazine interview (pre-finale, of course :/), where he ships Q/E because, paraphrase, they've both been through a certain amount of darkness that they can get through together; and they never stop learning from each other. 
> 
> I wanted to explore what that relationship might actually look like in "the real world," longterm, as opposed to the Mosaic, with all its ups and downs and struggles, and--eventually, we hope--growth. 
> 
> This part is also influenced by the books; it corresponds _very_ roughly to the hedonistic and aimless period Quentin and his friends have in New York right after graduation, but has elements from later in the series as well. 
> 
> _The Magicians_ books were in turn influenced heavily by _Brideshead Revisited;_ there are some nods in here directly to that source, although not nearly enough to consider this a crossover. If you're curious, though, there are some interviews with Grossman on the subject floating around the Net. 
> 
> Incidentally, though I don't really use the Enneagram much for real life purposes, reading through the character types and particularly how they are in relationship went a long way toward crystallizing my read on Q/E, and this fic.  
> Basically, [Eliot is a 7.](https://www.enneagraminstitute.com/type-7) [Q is a 6.](https://www.enneagraminstitute.com/type-6) The site's pros and cons for [that particular combination](https://www.enneagraminstitute.com/relationship-type-6-with-type-7) gave me a lot of food for thought.
> 
> (Whereas [Alice would be a 5,](https://www.enneagraminstitute.com/type-5) I think. [5's relationship w/6 tracks, too.](https://www.enneagraminstitute.com/relationship-type-5-with-type-6))
> 
> (Margo=3, Josh=9, Penny=8, Kady=probably 4, Julia=1, or maybe 5).
> 
> Thanks to all for reading along this far. What was originally going to be a relatively concise exploration of a Q/E relationship in a post S3 AU turned into a much, MUCH longer and more ambitious project. I'm anticipating at least good 10 chapters for this work, and two more separate, plot-heavy works in the series after this one. I'd very much like to finish the whole thing, and I'm hoping readers are along for the long haul. 
> 
> So, as always, all comments are welcome, critique included. I really appreciate engagement with the story as well as the fandom and the writing process in general. Just "still reading, keep going," if you have been and are, helps tremendously. And, again, thank you!


End file.
